


Cuts

by Dernhelm



Series: Chronicle of Scars [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Camping, Dreams, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Identity Issues, M/M, Mental Breakdown, New Relationship, No Sex, Polyamory Negotiations, Psychic Bond, Romance, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dernhelm/pseuds/Dernhelm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abandoned by his wife after five years of marriage, Faramir hopes to escape his pain when King Elessar summons him back to the White City. As he privately struggles with an illness that has plagued him for years, he grows even more confused when his friendship with Aragorn deepens into something more. Just when he is closest to tasting happiness again, Faramir's inner demons launch a final, desperate attack for his soul, and only Aragorn can save Faramir from his own darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Parting

**Author's Note:**

> This is the 10th anniversary of my writing this story (which was posted on Library of Moria and Faramir Fan archive) and I thought I'd celebrate by sharing it here. I also cleaned it up a bit and added in some material I recently rediscovered, so, this is a special anniversary edition of sorts.
> 
> Part two in the _Chronicle of Scars_ series, though one does not need to read _[Love Me and Despair](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1153723/chapters/2339549)_ to enjoy _Cuts _.__

 

Faramir awoke alone again for the third time that week. He did not need to reach his hand out to know his wife did not lay beside him, the hollow that held her lithe body in the mattress long since turned cold.

The morning sun had not yet begun its ascent in the sky, and the moon still shone her pale face over Ithilien. Regardless, he had been robbed of sleep, as the knot that had been forming in his stomach for months twisted itself even tighter. Sighing, he rose from the bed, knowing it would do him no good to lay in the sheets that still smelled of her, making his wait for her even more torturous.

Not needing his robe, for the nights were balmy in this time when the spring ripened into summer, he settled himself into the large chair by the open window, letting the warm breezes dance upon the bare skin of his chest and arms. The view looked out upon the green hills of Emyn Arnen, upon which his fair house was built, but the peaceful view gave him no comfort this night. He picked up the carefully bound book on the table beside him and flipped through it, the fire-light long dimmed to smoldering coals and the moon too faint to truly read by, but still, it gave him something to do while he waited.

And waited.

The sky had begun to blush a tender violet when Faramir heard the door to the bed-chamber slowly open, and he held his breath as his beloved, his wife, the White Lady of Ithilien, whispered into the room. So intent was she on closing the door silently behind her that she did not notice the empty bed, nor her husband seated by the window.

“Good morning, Éowyn.” Faramir’s voice was calm and gentle, as he always was with her.

Éowyn froze, clutching her chest in surprise, her eyes as wide as a frightened colt’s.

“How long have you been awake, my husband?” Éowyn’s voice trembled, but it was not faint. She had opted then, for the route of honesty. Faramir had always loved that about her.

“Long enough, my love.”

She turned her face away from him as the endearment passed his lips, and the knot in Faramir’s stomach tied itself a brother in his throat. He knew the truth then. All he had to do was hear it from her lips.

“You were with her again, weren’t you? Your handmaiden.” His voice held none of the hurt or accusation of a jilted lover, but the same placid tone he always took with her. This was going to be difficult enough. Hasty words would not lessen the bitterness.

She looked up at him after what seemed an eternity of silence, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Yes. I was.”

“You dreamt of the Lady again, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I did.”

Faramir sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, hiding his sorrow behind fatigue. She had confessed of her dreams one moonless night months before, after Faramir had woken in the darkness to find his wife’s face wet with tears, crying out a name softly as she slept: _Galadriel._

In the morning he asked her why the great Lady’s name brought such pain, and after much careful persuasion, she had told him of her brief time in Lothlórien. She spoke of the radiant healer who had brought her back from the brink of death. She had wept openly when she told him about the burning nights they had spent in each others arms, and as Faramir held her tenderly, she told him of how her Lady had broken her young heart. The first love is always the cruelest. He had kissed her after she had finished her story, her lips salty with grief, attempting to soothe the ache that had never truly mended in her heart. He hoped to be able to heal her, to be able to fill the void in her soul with his endless love for her.

It was not enough. He had never been enough.

He knew what Éowyn needed. It would be the hardest thing he had ever done to actually give it to her now.

“You know that she has long since left this land, gone across the sea.”

Éowyn sat on the edge of the bed, and though it was only a few feet from Faramir’s chair, he felt as if a chasm had opened between them, so distant was the look in her eyes.

“I know. But, I, I can’t stop dreaming of her eyes, her voice, her--” she snapped out of her reverie, and flashed Faramir a nervous look, fear not masking her desire quickly enough before he saw it burning bright.

It was at that moment that his heart truly broke. He knew she would never speak of him with such reverence, such awe, such love. He was but a man, noble though he was, just a man. How could he ever measure up to such a fair and ancient creature? How could he ever compare with her first love?

“Then you must try and find her, Éowyn.” His voice remained even, determined not to betray the hot feelings roiling under his calm veneer.

Her blue eyes filled with disbelief. Did she truly understand him? Was he toying with her?

“You must stop these troubled dreams, my wife, or you will never know peace again.”

There was nothing but love for her in his eyes, and she knew his words were true.

“Faramir. . .I, I couldn’t do that to you.” She protested anyway, for although her love for the Lady overshadowed her love for her husband, she stilled cared deeply for him, hating herself for causing him such pain. “What would the people say of you? ‘There goes the cuckold Steward of Gondor, whose own wife left him for a living ghost?’”

“No, my dear. They will say, ‘There goes a man who loved his wife so much he could let her go to find her true happiness.’”

With those words, the tears she had been fighting fell fast and hard, though she did not sob or wail. She wished she could love him as he deserved, he was such a fine man. But she knew, in her heart of hearts, that no man could ever tame the grief her lost love had left her. Not even good Faramir.

She rose from her seat then, and kissed his cheek, his fine ginger stubble tickling her lips. Faramir closed his eyes and savored the kiss, asking nothing more of her, trying to ignore the sticky-sweet aroma of the handmaiden’s passion upon his wife. He clasped her hand tightly, and when she pulled it away, her golden wedding band lay in his palm, the metal still warm.

“Éowyn, know always that there is a place for you here in Gondor. If your quest should fail, and I pray it does not, do not be afraid to return. If you need my aid, do not be ashamed to ask it of me. You will always be my wife, and I will always honor that bond, if not in love, then in duty.”

His eyes were as dry as his throat, and words seemed to come from his mouth as if he were puppeting them. Already he had faded into numbness, for he would not show her his heartache.

He then quietly rose, and wrapping himself in his robe, for suddenly the morning air chilled him to the bone, he left her to gather her belongings. He did not look back as he left the chambers they had shared. He doubted he would ever sleep within their walls again.

Faramir watched from a high sentry post as his wife rode away over the lush hills, the orange light glinting off the morning dew and painting the normally green grass with hues to rival fire itself. He tasted copper in the back of his mouth, and only then realized that he had his tongue clamped tight enough between his teeth to draw blood.

She stopped and looked back at him once, her flaxen hair also capturing the blaze of the sunrise, making her appear ethereal, dreamlike. He raised his hand in farewell, the golden band on his finger flashing a beacon of thinly veiled hope to her, a reminder of what she left behind. And like a dream, she passed out of his life, his last vision that of her hair unfurling in the wind like a banner, burning itself forever on Faramir’s mind.

The first love is always the cruelest.

Only when she was out of his sight, only when he had strode back to his chambers, head held high, ignoring the curious glances from the early morning guards who had witnessed their Lady’s departure, did he truly acknowledge his grief.

Sinking into his chair, he stared at the ring on his hand, which seemed to blur slightly the longer he looked.

He felt hollow, as if a storm had swept through his soul, leaving nothing but a rattling husk behind. A cascade of raw anguish threatened to fill the void, to wash him away on the torrent.

He would not let that happen. He would not lose control of himself. He was the master of his emotions, not their slave.

With trembling hands, he opened the drawer on the table beside him, and pulled out the instrument of his denial. Cradling it like an old friend, Faramir eased his pain the only way he knew how.


	2. Homecoming

It was strange to be home again. What had it been? Three, four years since he had last set foot in Minas Tirith?

Faramir had remained in the White City with Éowyn for almost two years after the war, spending most of that time in meetings, rebuilding what had been destroyed in the siege, ordering his troops to clean up the lingering remnants of the Shadow’s army. But once the house in the hills of Ithilien had been completed, and the prosperity of the lands on more stable footing, he and his wife had moved to Emyn Arnen, leaving the communication between King and Steward to be carried through couriers.

As Faramir strode through the main corridor of the Citadel, still clad in his worn riding clothes, he was struck equally by both the aching familiarity and the drastic changes that had undergone the castle he had grown up in.

All the old, rough tapestries of historic battles that had once lined the halls had been replaced by delicate weavings of arboreal scenes, testament to the Elven heritage of the Lady of the house. The shutters had been thrown open from the numerous windows that stood from floor to high ceiling, bathing the usually cold stones with warm July sun. Faramir could remember only a handful of times he had seen the corridor so bright; Denethor had preferred the security of locked windows and torchlight, even in the burning days of summer. The air seemed cleaner, purer, as if it had been swept free of the cobwebs of memory.

It was as if his family had never been there.

“Prince Faramir! You are earlier than we expected.” A melodious voice chimed from behind him.

He whirled, surprised at being caught so off guard on what should have been his home ground. He had not even heard the approach, but then again, the elves were legendary for their light step.

“Your Highness,” Faramir dropped to one knee and took the milky hand Arwen Evenstar offered him, pressing his lips briefly to the back of her hand, “I hope I have not disturbed you by arriving so soon after receiving your summons.”

The Queen was amused, both at having startled Faramir so easily, and at how quickly he fell upon protocol to stifle his embarrassment. She gently urged him to stand with the hand he clasped, wishing to put the formality aside. Faramir fluidly rose to his feet, and she embraced him lightly, like a warm breeze, kissing his cheek with friendly lips.

“Of course not, dear Faramir. You are always welcome in your own home.” She fought the very un-royal laugh that bubbled in her throat as she felt the warm rush of blood that tinted his face.

Faramir was unsure how to react, so unused to this level of assumed familiarity with his Queen. He had even addressed his father with honorifics more often than not, and hardly a touch beyond a handclasp had passed between them once Faramir had come of age.

“Thank you, my Lady.”

Arwen noticed the distance in Faramir’s eyes, and gracefully withdrew, making the motion seem natural. She had not meant to make him feel so uncomfortable.

“King Elessar has been trapped in his library all morning, wasting this precious summer day with dusty scrolls and books,” she spoke before the silence between them grew truly obvious, “I’m sure your arrival would be reason enough for him to leave his chores for at least a little while.” She linked her willowy arm through his, leading him toward the library.

“I do not wish to disturb the King at his work.” Faramir was starting to wish he had waited a few days before leaving for the White City. When the summon had arrived by courier, he had not even finished reading the note before he had begun to pack his bags. For four weeks he had been drifting aimlessly around his house, unable to do more than what was barely required of him. Every time his mind began to focus on a chosen task, a tiny detail would catch his eye, and carve another chink the armor he had so carefully built: the empty place at the table, the leather-bound book of Rohirrim songs she had given him for his last birthday, the vase of field flowers long since wilted into dry and molding leaves. . . he could not escape Éowyn as long as he dwelt in Emyn Arnen. It was in those little moments of realization that he missed her the most, and each day seemed to be made up of a thousand of those instants. It had been their house, a place in which they had intended to live out the rest of their days together.

At least in the White City there would be little to remind him of his lost wife.

At least the ghosts here were familiar.

“I am sorry the Lady Éowyn couldn’t join you on your visit.” Arwen’s voice was even, so casual she might have been speaking of the weather, “I had been hoping to show her the new weavings I have finished.”

Faramir’s heart twisted, and he sought to find the deeper connotation of her lament. Elven folk were cunning at masking the true meaning behind their words. But how could she have known? He had not made the knowledge public, choosing instead light excuses to divert the inquiries as to his wife’s whereabouts. And though his answers usually seemed to bring more questions, the stern look in his steely eyes was always enough to dissuade further interrogation. But here with his Queen, he felt as if his thoughts had been plucked from his mind like ripe fruit off a tree.

“I am as well, she would have been glad to return to the White City. But it is long since she had visited her homeland and her brother, and I do not begrudge her this long-needed reunion with Rohan.” Faramir had practiced this lie, and had told it so many times he was almost beginning to believe it himself.

“I am sure she will return soon, good prince. How could she stay away from such a handsome husband for long?”

Arwen had meant the words in jest, an effort to bring a smile to the Steward’s grim lips. But she realized too late that she had tread across a hidden tripwire as the color drained completely from Faramir’s already pale face. It was only a moment, a fraction of a second of naked revelation, before Faramir threw up the walls of defense against this unexpected assault on his already bruised pride. But not before Arwen saw the true depth of his pain etched across his face.

It was only then that the Queen truly realized why Éowyn had not accompanied her husband, and Arwen felt like a fool for not seeing it sooner. Salt in a wound.

Éowyn had left Faramir.

“Yes, my Lady. She will return soon.” He managed a polite smile, pretending his troubled demeanor was nothing more than the agitation of a man too long separated from his love, yet anxious for their imminent return. Not the deep grieving of an abandoned husband.

They walked in silence for the last few steps to the King’s library, Arwen’s smooth face not betraying her guilt at having hurt Faramir so needlessly with her careless banter, Faramir’s stoic countenance hiding his misery and shame at being so quickly reminded of what he sought to escape. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come after all.

**********************************************************

The High King Elessar groaned as he slammed another tome onto the growing pile of books on his desk, a flurry of dust sparkling in the sunlight that filtered through the open windows. A gentle breeze scattered the little cloud, and Aragorn could not help but stop and savor the fragrant wind as it wafted from the garden below, the lilting perfume of the summer flowers distracting him momentarily.

Until a mighty sneeze tore through him, breaking his tranquil moment as the dust reminded him of why he had disturbed it from its rest. Grumbling, he began carefully leafing through the yellowed pages, hunting fruitlessly for the single sentence that he had been searching for all morning.

He hated library work. He disliked all paperwork for that matter, but sifting through miles of parchment for one very specific passage was quite maddening. Especially on such a fine day, when he could hear the seductive whisper of the trees on the voice of the wind, the sun begging to kiss his face with her warm lips. . .

A familiar knock rapped softly at the door as it opened, more of an announcement than a request. Glad for the distraction, he rose from his chair to greet his beloved as she glided into the library, her eyes sparkling bright. His loving smile transformed into an almost boyish grin as his Steward followed her through the narrow door, looking a little fatigued from the journey.

“Prince Faramir! What an unexpected pleasure!” Aragorn did not mask his joy at seeing his friend again, and before Faramir could fall to his knee as Aragorn knew he would, the King had wrapped him in a tight hug. He was in no mood for formalities this day. “I had not expected to see you for another week.”

Faramir hid his shock well as he tentatively returned the embrace. Such affectionate people! Maybe it was their elven upbringing, although he was hard pressed to see the aloof race as much for physical displays of friendship. Denethor would have been beside himself to see a Steward greet his King in such a fashion. Yes, things were different now in Gondor.

“Thank you, King Elessar, I hope my early arrival does not cause any undue distress.” Faramir bowed his head as he pulled away from the hug. He had to do something to properly acknowledge his King.

Aragorn laughed. “Distress? No, quite the contrary, my friend, you have arrived just in time! I was about to die of boredom locked in here.” Aragorn glanced behind Faramir, suddenly realizing that only one person had followed Arwen into the room.

“Where is--” Aragorn caught a sharp glance from his wife, a slight shake of the head so subtle that only he could notice it, “--my sense of hospitality? You must be tired from your journey.” Aragorn placed a hand on Faramir’s shoulder and gently steered him to the large chairs by the picture window, throwing a puzzled look at Arwen.

She replied with a tell-tale look, the promise of an explanation later on if he followed her lead now.

“Dinner is still a few hours away, I’m afraid, but I will have the kitchens prepare a light luncheon for you, Faramir.” She looked to the tower of books on the king’s desk, “I will have them prepare a meal for you as well, Elessar, for I doubt you have eaten anything yourself this day.”

“Thank you, my beloved,” he replied gratefully in her native tongue, catching on quickly to the need for discretion around his guest. If even the mention of Éowyn was discouraged, he was sure open endearments to his own wife would not go over well.

Aragorn need not have worried, for Faramir had gravitated almost instinctively to the books littering the King’s desk, and was already engrossed on the passage Aragorn had left open as Arwen left to secure their meal.

“Are you familiar with this volume?” Aragorn joined Faramir at the table, clearing a corner large enough for him to half-seat himself on, one leg holding his weight, the other dangling over the edge as he peered over his Steward’s shoulder.

Faramir closed his eyes as he ran his finger over a line of script in the middle of the large page. “In Lindon south of the Lune dwelt Gil-Galad, last heir of kings of the Noldor in exile. . .” He opened his eyes, and smiled for the first time in weeks.

Yes, he was home.

Aragorn was thoroughly impressed. “I take it that you are then?”

Faramir turned to the King, his smile turning sheepish. “I used to spend most of my free time in this library, reading and rereading these books. They are like old friends to me,” he looked around at the expansive shelves, lovingly gazing upon the rows and rows of bound leather and paper, the steel in his eyes diminishing momentarily.

Aragorn was taken by the sudden change in his Steward, the hard edges of his features softening. Faramir’s open fondness for the library touched Aragorn as much as it confounded him. Although he did find pleasure in reading, he had never really considered himself a man of letters.

“Then perhaps you can help me, Faramir. I’ve been trying to find a specific passage, no more than a few words. . .”

Within two minutes, Faramir had located the proper book, a little paperbound bundle no bigger than his hand, and unearthed the passage with a few quick turns of the pages, a look of modest triumph on his face.

Aragorn threw up his hands. “You are amazing! You have found for me in seconds what I have been searching for all morning!” He clapped Faramir on the shoulder, and was surprised as he felt the younger man stiffen at the sudden touch.

Faramir did not realize he had flinched until the hand had been removed, a look of apology crossing the King’s face. Faramir immediately felt foolish for being so uptight, for demonstrating his unease so openly. They locked eyes briefly, both searching for the proper words to break the awkward moment, and ice stabbed Aragorn’s heart as he felt himself sucked into the storm clouds that roiled in Faramir’s eyes.

For that one brief second Faramir’s suffering was laid bare for Aragorn to see, the deep, aching loss that had stripped him of even the hope of joy. Then Faramir blinked, and it was as if a curtain of iron had descended under the nearly translucent flesh of his eyelids, locking away the pain he so carefully guarded.

“My Lords?” A meek voice broke the silence, “your luncheon awaits you in the gardens.” A dark-haired slip of a boy, barely old enough to have begun his service to the House, stood in the open doorway, his head bowed low as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Thank you, lad,” Aragorn nodded to the red-faced page, who scurried away like a frightened mouse as Aragorn then turned to Faramir. “Come, my prince, you must be famished.” The King’s smooth voice did not betray his concern for what he had witnessed in his friend’s eyes, the sucking void that had filled Aragorn with dread even after he had pulled his gaze away.

Carefully placing a scrap of paper to mark the page he’d found, Faramir left the little book with it’s brothers on Elessar’s desk as he followed the King out of the library.

They walked side by side down the corridor as they made their way to the gardens, and Faramir licked his lips, searching for words to break the pregnant silence.

“Did my King summon me back to the White City so that I may serve as his librarian?” he let a small smile play on his lips, hoping his attempt at a joke did not sound too forced.

To Faramir’s relief, Aragorn returned the smile easily, eager to put the disturbing revelation behind him for the time being.

“That was not my original intent. But since you have proved yourself to be a natural bibliomancer, I may exploit your skills further while you are here,” Aragorn chuckled. “I sent for you for two reasons. First, there are some new documents that I would like your assistance in drafting.”

“Are they of a sensitive nature, my Lord?” Faramir was puzzled.

“Not particularly.” Aragorn shook his head, sending the tips of his dark hair dancing across the finely brocaded surface of his chest. Faramir was suddenly struck by how much longer his King’s hair had become, further evidence of the changes of the years.

“Then, if I may ask, why did you not want to handle this by courier as we have always done in these matters?”

“That brings me to the second reason,” Aragorn met Faramir’s eyes as they turned the corner, “I wished for your company.”

Aragorn was surprised by the look of disbelief that flickered over his Steward’s face, the full lips parting and then closing again as Faramir searched futilely for the proper words. Misinterpreting the root of Faramir’s shock as displeasure, Aragorn suddenly felt a little embarrassed for masking leisure as business to lure Faramir to Minas Tirith.

“I apologize if my invitation came at a bad time,” Aragorn spoke hastily, hoping his disappointment was not evident in his voice, “if I had known that you preferred not to return to conduct--”

“No!” Faramir yelped, finding his voice at hearing his King’s veiled hurt, “not at all, my Lord, there is no need for apologies.” Faramir’s words tumbled over each other like sand in a wave, “I, I just did not expect the High King Elessar to. . .” Faramir trailed off as he searched for the proper way of phrasing his thoughts, risking a glance at Aragorn.

“Get lonely sometimes?” Aragorn confessed, throwing a rueful look at Faramir. “Aye, my good prince, Kings are not made of stone as history would have us believe.”

Aragorn stopped momentarily at an open window, admiring the breathtaking view of the White City as it spilled in tiers from the Citadel to the sparkling Anduin far below.

“My friends are few and far between these days, Faramir. It has been long since I’ve had any visitors, and I realized how long it has been since you have had a proper homecoming.”

“Thank you, my Lord. It is indeed good to be back,” Faramir replied.

The summer wind ruffled the King’s hair, sending stray tendrils fluttering like leaves around his finely chiseled face. His back was held straight and proud, and he looked every inch the King, the fine fabrics paling in light of the majesty he cloaked himself in.

“We all get a little homesick sometimes.” Aragorn whispered, suddenly a thousand miles away as the light caught the snowy peaks of the mountains beyond, dazzling him with their splendor.

In that moment Faramir could also see the man beneath the crown, the longing in his eyes as they roved to those glittering points, sought what lay on the other side of them. An untamed light shone from the deep blue, reminding Faramir that the King had spent most of his life in the wild, surviving by his means alone. He knew Elessar had willingly exchanged his throne of earth and root for one of stone and blood, but Faramir could see that part of the King still longed for the freedom of the uncivilized lands he had left behind.

“I am honored, my King, that you would look to me for company,” Faramir said softly, not wanting to disturb the feral beauty that shone from Elessar, “although I do not see myself as such an amusing fellow to be sent for specifically.”

“It is not amusement I seek, Faramir,” Aragorn turned to the prince, suddenly feeling very aware of himself, surprised by his own candor. Had he really become so hungry for the friendship of another?

Faramir bit the tip of his tongue and turned away, hiding the blush that had vengefully returned, not wanting his body to betray his confusing reaction. How could his King make him feel this way just by looking at him?

“Elessar? Are you deliberately trying to starve our guest?” Arwen’s smooth face held a look of mock annoyance, as she joined the men at the window, enjoying their surprise at her silent arrival. It was too easy for her to tread unheard on floors of wood and stone. And from the blush of Faramir’s face, which was becoming an endearing trademark of his, she recognized that she had arrived just in time. As always.

She slid one arm through Faramir’s again, and invited her husband to take the other. Linked thus, Arwen led them to the lush gardens as she led the light conversation, leaving the smoldering tension between the men to wash away on the temperate winds that wafted through the hall.


	3. Alone

The evening passed easily for Faramir in the company of the King and Queen. They sipped wine as they watched the crystalline stars brighten in the blackening sky, exchanging old stories and new tidings. Aragorn had received recent word from the Shire, and Faramir was glad to hear of the marriage of his friend, Peregrin, and of the election of Samwise as Mayor. It seemed that life had been good to his hobbit friends, and it cheered him a little to know that the days were still joyful and full of promise for some.

Faramir spoke sparingly of Éowyn, and his hosts seemed satisfied with the little news he gave them of her. He hoped to not rouse suspicions of their parting, although he had to push past the raw ache in his chest each time he spoke her name.

He took his leave early, his travel weariness compounded by the drowsing effects of the wine, and retired to the rooms Lady Arwen had prepared for him. He was so exhausted that he did not take note of the route the servant was taking him through the Citadel, so intent was he on keeping one foot in front of the other.

It was not until his escort had opened the door to his chamber for him did Faramir realize where his Queen intended for him to stay. It seemed logical, practical even. Of course she would put him in his old quarters. She did not know any better.

It was as if he had never left the White City. Amid all the changes that had undergone the Citadel, here was one corner of his history that had not been altered by the turning of the age. It had been dusted and well kept, fresh linens on the bed and a homey fire in the hearth. All his old, favorite books were still carefully arranged in their shelves around the trinkets he had collected throughout his youth. It felt as if he had been away for just a few hours, not a few years.

“Is there a problem, my Lord?” the young man beside him asked.

Faramir realized that he had frozen in the doorway, trapped at this border, afraid to cross lest he step into his past.

“No. No problem,” Faramir lied. “Thank you.” He slowly entered his room, ignoring the servant as he bowed and softly closed the heavy wooden door, leaving Faramir alone with his memories.

When he and Éowyn had lived in Minas Tirith as husband and wife, they had been given a larger suite to share in a more private wing of the castle. Faramir had ventured to his old rooms only once to collect the most essential of his belongings, and had abandoned the rest gladly. He had been eager to leave behind the reminders of everything—and everyone—he had lost, ready to embrace the new hope that waited for him in the arms of the most beautiful and valiant woman he had ever known.

His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, Faramir carefully paced the fire lit room. His boots retraced the impressions left in the carpet by his growing feet over the decades, from toddling boy to man full-grown. His hands wandered across the furniture; his fingers rediscovering, further sharpening his blurred recollections.

‘Here, this is the corner of the table where I split my chin when Boromir and I were wrestling.’ Faramir’s lips curled into a melancholy smile, his left hand playing across the shallow scar hidden by his beard. ‘And this, this deep gash in the side of my wardrobe from when I thought I had enough room to swing my first sword in my own bedroom.’

He came to the large trunk at the foot of his bed; the dark, lacquered wood gleaming so wetly it still amazed Faramir that his fingers came away dry after stroking the surface. Upon it was skillfully engraved a scene of a fleet of ships braving a fierce squall, and the firelight playing off the varnish made the wooden ocean dance as if it were made of salt water. He loved this chest, but like everything he loved, it made his heart ache to look upon it.

The trunk had belonged to Finduilas, Faramir’s mother, a wedding gift for the young bride as she had been forever sent away from her home to marry a man she had never met. Within it had once laid the midnight-hued mantle that he had given Éowyn on their fifth day together in the House of Healing. It was the cloak his mother used to wrap around them both when, as a child, he would crawl onto her lap, and listen to her fill the room with her rich voice. She would lull him to sleep with chants of the sea she would never again see, and he remembered thinking that the sadness in her voice made the songs all the more beautiful. It was the only real memory he had of his mother…just as the chest itself was the only memento he had left of hers.

Pushing himself away from his reverie with a low growl, Faramir stood shakily, unwelcome emotions riding in upon the wave of fatigue that threatened to overcome him again. He clenched his fists and took a few deep breaths, shaking his head to clear it of his mother’s haunting voice.  
It was on the last shake of his head that Faramir’s eyes locked on the tapestry hung in the corner of the room.

‘I wonder. . .’ There was nothing particularly spectacular about the pattern or colors in the woven cloth, more than anything it had been hung to keep the drafty room a bit warmer. Faramir wandered over to it, tracing the rough lines of the design softly, his fingers searching, searching. . .there it was.

To the touch it was nothing more than a shallow depression under the tapestry, about three feet off the ground, a small spot where there was no solid stone reinforcing the heavy fabric. Tentatively, Faramir pushed aside the weaving, crouching into a squat, and looked into the secret passage that he and Boromir had discovered between their neighboring rooms as children.

Well, they hadn’t discovered it so much as encouraged it: Boromir had freed the large brick that had already come loose from it mortared home with his small dagger; Faramir had aided as only a five year old could, by nearly pushing the brick onto his older brother’s foot when asked to give a mighty shove from his side of the wall.

The opening was large enough to pass notes and treasures through, to speak through comfortably in whispers long after they should have been asleep. They had entertained the notion of encouraging more bricks to come loose so they could use the passage as a secret door, but after Boromir had snapped his little blade trying to cut through the fast mortar, the brothers had abandoned the idea.

Even as they grew to manhood and spent many months parted on individual marches and missions, when they were home in Minas Tirith they would still use this little hole for late-night talks. Sometimes they would pass a bottle of stolen wine through the passage along with their whispers, sitting on the cold floor wrapped in blankets. This was where the brothers had exchanged hopes and secrets; Faramir learning more than he ever wanted to know of Boromir’s adventures with various girls, Boromir listening patiently as Faramir enthusiastically recounted almost word for word the stories he had read in his absence. Many nights they had discussed their father through this passage, feeling as if it were the only safe place to speak with absolute honesty about Denethor’s growing distance. Too often the talks were spent with Boromir lending what little comfort he could to a distraught Faramir when he bore the brunt of his father’s deep-seated displeasure, replacing Denethor’s hasty snarls with words of loving reassurance.

When there were quarrels, or the occasional late-night visitor to Boromir’s chamber, the brick would be replaced in the hole. It always left Faramir feeling closed off and deeply lonely, and he would wait fitfully for the passage--and communication--to open between them again. Most nights they left the brick out, and all Faramir had to do was lift the tapestry to see the gentle glow of the smoldering coals flickering across Boromir’s sleeping form to know that all was right with the world. No matter what happened, his elder brother would always be there for him with his rough smiles and caring words, always knowing the right thing to say or do when Faramir needed him.

Now, all that lay on the other side of the passage was complete and utter blackness. The room had lain empty for almost ten years now, since Boromir had left for Rivendell, but this was the first time Faramir had had the courage to look in.

“Brother, I need you now more than ever,” Faramir whispered in a broken voice.

Nothing, not even the sigh of Boromir’s ghost responded. The darkness ate his words, and Faramir pressed his forehead to the cold stones, fighting, fighting the tears pressing hot and insistent against his eyelids.

It was too much, all of this was too much. So many memories, so many people he had loved and lost. Everyone that mattered to him was gone.

Faramir had never felt more alone in his life as he stared into the blackness beyond the hole. Torturing himself only a second longer, he dropped the tapestry, and stumbled to his bags, bleary with sorrow and sleepiness.

He fumbled through the numerous pockets, frantically searching. He knew he had packed it somewhere…ah, there it was.

His hand closed around his quarry, and he clutched it as a drowning man would a life line. Drawing out his prize, his dear friend, Faramir lost himself in his old ritual of denial, damning his tears behind a wall of exquisite, familiar pain, until they no longer threatened to spill.  
Only then could Faramir sleep.

*********

 

“I’ve seen that look before,” Aragorn’s said uneasily, “and I had hoped that I would never see it again.”

He refilled both his and Arwen’s wine glasses as he spoke, draining the last of the bottle that they had shared with Faramir. The night was warm and clear in the garden, but still Aragorn felt a deep chill as he spoke of their guest.

“There is always sorrow, my love, even in the brightest days.” She took the offered cup, sipping delicately at the sweet, white wine.

“Aye, but the haunted look in Faramir’s eyes,” he paused, words frozen in the shadow of memory, “it is understandable that he would grieve for the loss of his beloved, but his is the look of a man who has lost all hope.”

“The pain is all the sharper that she still lives. She was not taken from him, Estel, she walked away.” Arwen reminded him gently.

They sat in silence for a while, thinking.

“Do you realize how alone Faramir must feel?” Arwen asked.

“He’s always been a solitary fellow.”

“Look deeper, Estel. You said he has the look of a man who has lost all hope. Think. What does Faramir truly have in his life?”

“He is Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien…” Aragorn’s voice trailed off as he thought, and could come up with little else. He met Arwen’s knowing eyes, and it all clicked. “He has no one left.” Aragorn’s voice was filled with a bewildered pity.

“All his family is gone. Most of his friends are dead. All he had was his beloved, and she abandons him childless. Tell me, Estel, orphan yourself, were I to walk out of your life, wouldn’t you become a shadow as well?”

Aragorn thought silently again as he sipped at his wine, the flavor no longer so pleasing to his tongue. True, were Arwen to leave, he would be beside himself with grief. But he did not think he would plummet into the black despair that had taken hold of Faramir.

“Then what should we do? How can we aid him?” Aragorn turned to Arwen. There were benefits to being married to someone far, far older and wiser, and she was his greatest councilor and confidant.

“Show him there are those who still deeply care about him. Help him mend the wound that Éowyn has left in his heart.” Arwen smiled lightly as she squeezed her husband’s hand. “Just be a friend to him.”

Aragorn nodded, finding his own hope in Arwen’s words. He had seen that very same empty hopelessness in an almost identical pair of eyes, four decades ago. Then, he had been powerless as he had watched it destroy all love and goodness in a noble heart, until nothing but bitterness and hate had remained.

  
He shuddered. No, he would not let the same fate befall Faramir.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was not included when I posted this story in 2004 to my LJ, Library of Moria, and Faramir Fiction archive. I rediscovered it in my notes--completed--and figured I'd add it back in.


	4. Gifts

Weeks passed as days in Minas Tirith for Faramir, as he found himself easily swept up again in the quick pace of city living. Too many hours were spent in arduous meetings with Elessar and the councilors as they drew up new legislation, and Faramir began to remember why he had been glad to live away from the incessant arguing and backhanded insults that always went into law-making.

A few nights he would spend with some of his former men in the taverns, taking meat and ale with the old rangers, glad to see how the years had treated the fellows of his company.

But the friends he revisited with the most fervor were the books in the King’s library. In his free afternoons, he would sit at the large table under the window, having undertaken Elessar’s research, in spite of his protests. Aragorn was hard-pressed to lure Faramir from his work-table, which Faramir suspected it was mostly out of guilt due to the extra work he had undertaken on his behalf. But he could usually let himself be pulled away long enough to share the evening meal with his hosts, though he would not stay long at the table after his glass of after-dinner wine was emptied.

He was grateful to have someone to share supper conversation with again, especially a pair so filled with light and joy as Aragorn and Arwen. It relieved Faramir that he felt no bitterness when he looked upon them together, he did not begrudge them the happiness they had so long suffered for. No, that was not what drove him from the table each night into the solitude of his library.

It was how the King watched him.

Each time his deep blue irises would lock upon Faramir, the Steward could not help the deep flush that crept across his body as his heart abandoned its steady rhythm to pound raggedly upon his ribs. It unnerved him greatly, that his King’s gaze could leave him feeling so flustered for no apparent reason, the open care offered in Aragorn’s eyes too much for Faramir to accept. It left Faramir feeling vaguely wicked each time he looked away hurriedly; instead studying the patterns on the fine silver plates they dined off of as if they could give him the answer as to why his body reacted so shamefully in the presence of his Lord. But no matter how he interpreted the glittering whirls as he stabbed his fork at them, they never revealed more than new excuses for a quick escape from the table and fresh questions for Faramir to turn in his mind as he lay awake in his lonely bed at night.

**********

“Faramir? Do you ever sleep anymore?” Aragorn’s good natured voice was tinged with concern as he found his friend in the exact same position he had left him in the night before: hunched over a pile of dusty books and documents in the library, scribbling madly at an increasing pile of papers before him.

“Only when the mood strikes me.” Faramir looked up and smiled crookedly, surprising himself with the ease he felt that morning, even as his pulse quickened at the sound of Elessar’s voice. “I imagine another couple of weeks like this, and I will be finished with the report you requested.”

“I did not request any report from you, Faramir. You volunteered for it.” Aragorn shook his head as he approached him. The morning light shone off Faramir’s hair, giving it the texture of golden silk as he absently pushed little wisps behind his ears, only to have them fall in his eyes again. Aragorn’s chest tightened at the sight, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious as he neared the younger man.

He looked over Faramir’s shoulder at the huge tome he had splayed before him on the desk, and sighed heavily as the Steward turned back to his work. Abruptly, Aragorn slammed the book shut, and Faramir barely had enough time to jerk his finger away from the passage he was transcribing before it was crushed between pounds of parchment.

“Aragorn! I was almost done with that paragraph!” Faramir was annoyed, more by the pleased smirk that had crossed Elessar’s face than at the interruption of his work.

“I thought you had all the books in here memorized by now,” Aragorn’s voice held no mockery, only humor, as he pulled from behind his back a smaller book bound in rich red leather, “but I’m sure you do not have this one committed to memory yet.”

Faramir took the book offered to him, as mesmerized by the fine bookbinding as a dwarf would have been by skillfully wrought jewelry. The leather felt buttery smooth under his hands, and the title was embossed in elvish, the silver-leaf lettering gleaming as brightly upon the spine as if it had been penned with moonlight.

“What is this, Aragorn?” It was still awkward for him to call his liege by anything other than title, but the King had insisted time and again that he did not want to be addressed so by his guest and friend.

“It was from the private library of Elrond himself, a collection of old elvish tales and songs.” Aragorn said proudly. “Arwen brought it with her when she left Rivendell.”

“It’s beautiful. But I cannot read much Elvish.” Faramir replied, the awe in his voice laced with more than a little regret.

“Ah, but this is what makes this volume exceptional,” Aragorn opened the book carefully, more out of reverence than out of fear of damaging it, “it was meant to be read by both men and Elves.”

Upon each page were two neat columns of writing, one in the language of the men of the West, the other in the poetic script of the elves. After every few chapters were artfully painted illustrations in full color, the hues so vibrant it seemed to Faramir that the little figures of ink moved upon the page.

“I’ve never seen such a fine book before.” Faramir breathed as he caressed the paper, amazed to find it as pliant as cloth, “it must have been bound no more than a few years ago.”

The King chuckled. “That is where the true beauty of Elven craftwork lays. This book was made over a thousand years ago.” He laughed again as Faramir’s jaw went slack in amazement, “so, yes, it is still comparatively new.”

Faramir closed it gently and handed it to Aragorn, “I would very much like to borrow it sometime,” he said softly.

“Faramir, it is for you!” Aragorn’s heart squeezed as the Steward’s eyes filled with wonder, yet flickered with confusion, as if he almost didn’t dare hope he could possess such a treasure. “I though it was the custom in Gondor to give gifts when one’s friends reach their day of birth.”

Faramir blinked hard several times, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What day is today?”

When Aragorn told him, Faramir shook his head and let out a slight laugh. “I forget almost every year.”

“Well, I’m not letting you forget this year. Nor am I going to let you spend it locked in this library.” Aragorn looked out the promising day through the open window behind Faramir. “Come, the weather is still warm enough for the two of us to venture out in comfort. Will you accompany me out on a horse-ride along the river?”

Faramir’s first instinct was to refuse, especially as the full meaning of what was passing between them hit him. Not only had Aragorn remembered his birthday and had given him possibly the most luxurious gift he had ever received, but he genuinely desired to spend time with Faramir. Did he trust himself enough not to humiliate himself in front of his King?

But as he looked into Aragorn’s eager face, the open anticipation, Faramir could not refuse. The slight fluttering that had invaded his stomach when Elessar had entered the room became a violent flurry as Faramir swallowed his fear and answered honestly.

“I’d love to.”

 ***********

  
The late afternoon sun threw jeweled light off the blue Anduin, dazzling Faramir as he basked in the dappled shade at the river’s edge. Beside him, Aragorn silently tugged at the thread he was holding, intently watching the large fish that was circling closer to the bait he had cast into the water. Only the whisper of the tall grasses could be heard over the incessant gurgle of the water, punctuated now and again by the chirps and calls of red-breasted birds that fluttered from tree to tree. Faramir shifted against the large trunk he was reclining against as he watched Aragorn’s attempt to catch their dinner, sighing contentedly as he drank in the quiet.

They had set out at noon from Minas Tirith with six of the King’s guard, who knew how to ride at a far enough distance so the King and Steward could have their privacy, but also reinforcements should the need arise. Aragorn and Faramir had amused themselves by racing each other along the river, much to their guard’s dismay, devouring the freedom of the land and open air, feeling like escapees from the duties that kept them bound behind high walls.

The pair had ridden farther than they had intended, too caught up in the call of the green land to take heed of the sun’s position in the sky. By the time they had stopped at a quiet beach at the river’s edge to let their horses drink, the sun had been well on her way to the cradle of the horizon. They would not have returned to the city until long after dark if they turned back at that moment, and neither man had the desire to leave the lush peace so soon. So they had made a camp at the riverbank, carefully picking a bend that would shield them from their guards to at least give them the illusion that they were alone. Faramir had ridden back to alert the men of their plans, who set up their own camp at a discreet distance.

Aragorn jerked the line suddenly, and the silver fish flew out of the water and landed on the graveled beach in a slippery, thrashing dance. Looking very pleased with himself, Aragorn wrestled the fish into stillness, getting his muslin shirt thoroughly wet in the process. Faramir was glad that both of them had opted to wear their more rugged traveling clothes than the riding finery of nobility; it would have been a sight to see them return to their city with their silks and velvets streaked with fish scales and dirt.

“He should be big enough to feed us both, don’t you think?” Aragorn held up his prize proudly, but almost dropped it as the fish gave a final, mighty spasm in the hope of escape.

“Indeed. He’ll make a fine dinner.” Faramir laughed at the struggle as he stood, brushing the stray sand from his breeches. “I’ll have the fire ready by the time you have him cleaned.”

The shadows were blending together in the twilight by the time Aragorn and Faramir sat down at the crackling fire to eat, using their hands and knives to carve at the succulent meat. Few words had passed between them since they had left Minas Tirith, but it was a comfortable silence, each simply being glad to have another to share the serenity with.

It was Faramir who broke the silence first.

“There is a winery near Firien Woods, very small, but very good, that makes a vintage of white wine that would compliment this fish well.” Faramir rolled the taste of the flaky meat over his tongue again. “Yes, it would go perfectly. The wine has a slightly apple-like flavor, but is not overly sweet, and yet not too dry. Quite mild.”

Aragorn grinned. “I never knew you were such a connoisseur.”

Faramir shrugged, throwing a shy, sideways smile at Aragorn, “there are many things that people don’t know about me.” Suddenly feeling a little foolish for being so open, Faramir turned away, hoping the dim light hid the hot blush creeping across his face.

Aragorn immediately saw the change in his friend, the warmth that had shown in his eyes only seconds before now frosted over in that protective layer he constantly wrapped around himself. Faramir was so hurt, so afraid to open himself; Aragorn knew he would have to tread carefully if he hoped for the younger man to trust him.

Hoping to lighten the mood a little, Aragorn cut off a large piece of the fish, and stabbed it on the end of his knife. He raised it, as if in salute, and turned to Faramir.

“Come, we have no wine, but I still would propose a toast.” Aragorn’s heart rose to see the mirth return to Faramir’s fine features. When Faramir also had a chunk of meat held aloft, his lips twisted in amusement, Aragorn cleared his throat, and spoke as if he were addressing a great host, “to Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien. To Faramir, warrior, scholar, and poet. To Faramir, my friend who is wise, noble, and brave. May you live to see many more birthdays in peace and in health.”

Aragorn wondered if he had made a mistake as he saw Faramir’s eyes grow wide and bright during his speech, a hint of shimmer on his lower lids. They clinked their blades together in toast, and Faramir swallowed hard a few times before taking the fish into his mouth. By the time he had finished his mouthful he had mastered himself again, and took a drink from his skin of water before trusting his voice again.

“Thank you, my Liege.” Faramir’s voice was filled with genuine gratitude, and more than a little reverence. He was silent for a long moment, finishing the last of his meal, and Aragorn could see a debate roiling in Faramir’s mind as he stared through the mesmerizing fire. Finally it seemed as if he had come to a decision, and when Faramir turned to Aragorn he was amazed to see that his prince’s eyes were completely clear of the cold fog.

“In all my years, there have only been two others who ever saw my day of birth as a cause for celebration.” Faramir sighed, and shifted lower against the fallen tree he sat against, “my father never had much time to really acknowledge either mine or Boromir’s birthdays, and I don’t remember what my mother did for me, I was so small when she died. So Boromir would always take it on himself to do something special for me, and I for him on his day.”

Faramir pulled his pipe out of his belt pouch, and handed it to Aragorn as he filled his own pipe from the full sachet of pipe weed he had pulled from his pack.

“One year, I think it was the year I turned seven, Boromir convinced the cooks to make a huge cake for us. We hid it from father, since he didn’t let us have sweets, and we didn’t realize that he would have made an exception if we had reminded him what day it was. So, being the cunning children we were, we snuck into one of the linen closets and ate the whole thing, scared to leave any evidence.” Faramir chuckled. “We were so sick that night. The only reason father didn’t punish us was because he knew that nothing could have been more miserable than the bellyaches we had for the next two days.”

Aragorn laughed softly with him, and passed Faramir back his filled pipe. The more the prince spoke, the more it dawned on him how truly striking Faramir’s face was when it was free of doubt and shadow. The severe angles of his cheeks and jaw had softened, and the clear, wide-set eyes twinkled from behind the ubiquitous stray wisps of coppery hair. But it was Faramir’s lips that intrigued Aragorn the most, for they were so full they were nearly pouting when they weren’t tightened into a thin line, glistening pink as Faramir ran the tip of his tongue over the bottom lip after taking a long puff from his pipe .

It was Aragorn’s turn to look away into the fire, hoping Faramir had not seen him studying him so intently. He didn’t want to scare him, give him the wrong impression. But Aragorn was beginning to question his own motives for bringing Faramir out into the wild alone; the same impulse that had driven him to send Faramir the invitation to Minas Tirith, the same longing that had him seeking out his Steward whenever given the chance.

 _‘I’m supposed to be a friend to Faramir, not a threat or confusion,’_ Aragorn reminded himself as he took another deep draw from his pipe.

“Father did host a dinner banquet when I turned eighteen,” Faramir continued, “I think it was mostly because he had had one for Boromir, and knew others would look badly upon him if he did not for me. It was, by far, the most depressing party I’d ever attended. Most of the guests were father’s friends, and all the talk centered around the rising threat in the East. After dinner, Boromir was able to sneak us both out of the Citadel, no easy feat, but we managed to pass undetected. We got roaring drunk at a small tavern nearby with some of our friends from the military, and Boromir drank so much he passed out at the table for a while. Then we had to sneak back home with me practically carrying Boromir the whole way! It was a miracle we didn’t get caught that time, but both of us were so hung over the next morning. . .” Faramir’s eyes were misty with memory, and he blew out a stream of gray smoke as he mused quietly for a minute on his lost brother.

“Sounds like your best birthdays were the ones that left you ill the next day.” Aragorn said, suddenly feeling a pang longing for his own foster brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, whom he had not seen since the ending of the war. The three of them had been good friends, and there had been much love between them; but Aragorn had been far, far younger than they and never had built as tight a bond with them as Faramir had with Boromir.

Faramir thought for a minute. “Close. I think the best birthday I ever had was the in the second year Éowyn and I were married. . .” he trailed off, his throat tightening again.

“I remember that day,” Aragorn said gently, hoping to lend Faramir strength in a joined memory, “you were both still living in Minas Tirith. The look on your face when you walked in and found us all waiting for you at the table,” Aragorn chuckled, “you really had completely forgotten it was your birthday. Éowyn had no trouble keeping that dinner a secret from you, even though she planned it for weeks.”

Faramir smiled wanly, wistfully, seeing in his mind’s eye the delight on Éowyn’s face when he had walked into the dining hall. He had expected nothing more than a quick meal before returning to his paperwork, and instead had found a feast prepared in his honor, his dearest living friends and kin all waiting for him to take his place at the head of the table. It had been a small party, no more than a dozen guests or so, but it was exactly how he had wanted it. He remembered how his wife had taken his hand and led him to his chair, kissing his cheek and beaming at the pleased shock on his face, and he knew he was the luckiest man in all of Arda to have a wife as loving and caring as Éowyn. . .

“I am sorry about Éowyn, my friend.” Aragorn’s soft voice broke his reverie, and Faramir shook his head to clear it of his wife’s beautiful face. He was met by Aragorn’s knowing eyes, filled with regret and the offer of comfort, as he took Faramir’s empty pipe and refilled it with fresh pipe weed without needing to ask.

He knew, then. There was sense in lying to him anymore.

“As am I,” Faramir sighed, “out of everyone I’ve ever lost, hers is the absence that affects me the most.”

“How long has she been gone?” Aragorn handed back Faramir’s pipe, his voice soothing and even, hoping to encourage Faramir to speak freely.

“She left about a month before I came to Minas Tirith, so, about three months now.” Faramir shook his head again. “Feels like it’s been three years.”

They sat in silence for a long minute, Aragorn not wanting to ask the question that was burning in his mind lest it push Faramir too far too fast. But Faramir met his gaze, and when Aragorn saw the naked sorrow laid open for him, the same anguish he had seen when Faramir had first arrived, Aragorn breathed in shakily and continued on. Faramir needed to speak of this with someone. He’d held his pain bottled up for far too long.

“Faramir, where did she go?” Aragorn asked gently.

Faramir remained quiet a little while longer, and Aragorn feared he had indeed overstepped his bounds. The prince took a long draw off his pipe again, thinking, thinking, and finally deciding that he could trust his King with the delicate secret of his shame.

Hesitantly, Faramir told Aragorn of Éowyn’s past with the Lady Galadriel, of the burning desire for the elven queen that had never left her. He spoke of the distance that had grown between him and Éowyn, of the nights he would wake up alone long before the sun had risen, and of the red-faced maids that would not meet his eyes when he was in their presence the following day. He spoke of his denial, of his refusal to acknowledge Éowyn’s episodes as anything more than minor trysts to alleviate her boredom, even as she would turn her back to him every time he attempted to kiss her good-night. Finally, he told him of how he had let he go seek the great Lady, even though he feared that Éowyn would meet her grave trying to reach the fabled shores of Valinor.

Faramir’s voice was even, practically monotone as he spoke, stripped of all feeling. It was almost as if he were reciting history from a book, refusing to claim the emotions that a man feels when deserted by his wife. It was only Faramir’s eyes that betrayed his pain, the high walls lowered for once, and Aragorn’s heart almost broke for his friend as he saw just how deeply this abandonment had wounded him. No, it had more than wounded him. It had almost destroyed him.

By the time he stopped speaking, the moon had risen high in the clear, dark sky. Aragorn’s pipe weed pouch was half-emptied, as Faramir chain-smoked throughout his story, drawing long, hard pulls right before speaking of the most difficult parts. The river sang to them in that silence, as Aragorn searched for the right words to give Faramir some solace. But he could find no words that could fill the emptiness of Faramir’s heart, and instead, took his friend’s hand in his and squeezed it hard, lending his prince strength in solidarity.

Faramir squeezed back, suddenly feeling lighter than he had in months. He had not spoken to anyone of Éowyn’s estrangement, even while they were wrapped tightly in the thick of their conflict, and it had been a burden he had carried alone through these trying times. He looked at Aragorn, at the sadness he wore on his behalf, and was struck by how willingly this man, his King--no, his _friend_ \--shared his grief. Not since he had lost his brother had he met another he felt he could share his private thoughts so freely with. Never had the words come so unbidden in the presence of anyone else, never had he let any other man touch him this tenderly without recoiling.

“Thank you, Aragorn.” Faramir said quietly, suddenly very aware of the roughness of the King’s war hardened hand against his own, the latent strength of the fingers as they slowly stroked the back of Faramir’s hand unconsciously, sending little arcs of lightning across Faramir’s skin, “I didn’t realize how badly I needed to speak about this.”

The corners of Aragorn’s mouth rose, and he looked deeply into Faramir’s eyes again to fully acknowledge his thanks. The pain was still there, that Aragorn had expected, since it seemed to have been carved into the tiny blue lines of his irises, but it was greatly lessened, a bruise rather than a gaping wound.

But there, hidden in the bitterness and sorrow, lay something Aragorn did not expect, something that stole the breath straight from his lungs. Unbidden, the path to Faramir’s soul opened before him, revealing itself as an old road would when the thick overgrowth is pulled aside. Aragorn found himself tracing the conduit that he himself had forged what seemed like lifetimes ago, in hopes of pulling Faramir back from the Shadow as he had lain dying in the final days of the war. He had not realized the channel would remain open to him after so many years, and he felt himself melting in Faramir’s memories, visions flickering in Faramir’s pupils like light upon a dark wall:

He could see Faramir as a small boy, no older than five, cradled by a grief-stricken Boromir as they wept together at the foot of Finduilas’ deathbed. He watched as the years passed in a flash of seconds, the decades of scorn and ice he had borne from Denethor, the desperate yearning for even a kind word from his bitter father. Aragorn saw the heartbreak in Faramir as Boromir rode away to Rivendell, the last time he ever saw his beloved brother alive; and then as he saw him dead, a vision of mist and light floating along the river in the funeral boat Aragorn himself had prepared. He saw the life-long desperation with which Faramir had thrown himself into battle in the name of Gondor, only to fall under the Shadow’s poison arrows just as his people needed him the most. There was the hollow realization that he was all that remained of his bloodline when news of Denethor’s suicide reached him in the house of healing, joined with the crushing knowledge that his own father would have murdered him in grief and called it a mercy. He saw the bright beam of light that had appeared though this darkness, the White Lady of Rohan, as Faramir finally found peace and joy in a mutual love. . .which had been snatched from him just as easily as everything else had been.

But still, through that, there was a flame within him, a burning beauty that guttered and struggled to stay lit as it was buffeted on all sides by death, betrayal, and war. All hope had not left Faramir, it had just been cloaked in the cold, wet mantle of disbelief. Aragorn wanted to reach in, caress the little lick of light, stoke it into the blazing bonfire he knew could burn the residue of grief into scattering ashes. . .

They did not realize what they did, for logic had receded into afterthought as their two souls remerged to form one consciousness. When their lips met, it felt right, complete, as Aragorn gently cupped Faramir’s face with his free hand, tasting the smoky sweetness of the plump lips with his own. Their beards rasped softly against each other’s; and Faramir sighed into Aragorn’s hot mouth, flicking out his tongue to taste his King’s desire. The kiss grew deeper, richer, and Faramir entwined his fingers in Aragorn’s wind-tangled hair to draw him closer, savoring the feel of the silken strands as they brushed against his cheek.

The tiny light became more vivid with each subtle suck and delicate nip that Aragorn played across Faramir’s lips, and he felt his own soul grow brighter with each passing second. A deep, dark place long hidden inside Aragorn opened its arms and drank in the brilliance radiating from Faramir; Aragorn’s secret need, long repressed, glutted itself not on memory as it had for countless years, but now on the flavor of warm, wanting flesh.

They pulled away slowly, each taking a moment to relish the taste of the other still clinging moistly to their lips, before opening their lids almost in unison. Faramir’s eyes were clear of all darkness, and Aragorn had never seen anything so heart wrenchingly beautiful as the pure warmth and love that shone freely from the younger man’s eyes. Faramir was able to meet Aragorn’s gaze without flinching, and was delighted to see the serene bliss that flashed brightly as he stroked his stubbled cheek.

Saying nothing, for words were a pale imitation of the communication they had just shared, Faramir rested his head on Aragorn’s shoulder, and was surprised to find the King trembling.

Aragorn drew his arms protectively around Faramir, burying his nose in his soft curls and breathing in his musky scent. Even in this quiet afterglow his heart was racing faster than his horse across the open plain. In that kiss, he had touched an innocence long lost, something that Aragorn had truly believed he could never regain again.

“Faramir?” he finally asked, his voice thick with wonder.

“Mmm?” Faramir snuggled tighter against Aragorn, feeling the King’s words vibrate in his chest.

“Have you ever. . .” The words stuck, as if speaking them aloud would rob them of their full meaning.

Faramir sighed, and buried his face deeper into the fabric of Aragorn’s tunic, losing himself momentarily in the scent of campfire smoke, dried sweat, and. . .frightened fish.

For a moment, the healer feared that he had unraveled the good that he had just done, poking at the freshly raw emotions welling up from his charge. But then Faramir lifted his face again, smiling a little, and his voice was soft, yet clear.

“Once.” Faramir shifted more to look up at Aragorn. “You?”

“Very long ago.” Aragorn whispered. “When I was a young man.”

Not quite content with each other’s answers, but unwilling to risk the fragile peace they had found together, neither pressed to ask the same questions that burned in their minds. Instead, they fell silent again, watching the fire dwindle into coals. Faramir’s breathing became rhythmic on Aragorn’s chest, and the King found himself slipping into sleep as well. He shifted a little, trying not to disturb the beautiful man in his arms, but attempting to adjust them both into a more comfortable position. Faramir molded against him again instinctively, his face languid with sleep, and Aragorn was reminded of the vision he’d had of the grieving child in his big brother’s comforting embrace. His heart twisted again, and he stroked Faramir’s arm, the battle-sculpted muscles under the thick cloth reminding Aragorn of the long path of manhood that had led Faramir from his brother’s arms to his King’s.

“Good night, my prince.” Aragorn whispered, and deposited a kiss on the smooth forehead. Then pulling his cloak tighter around them both, Aragorn let sleep claim him as well, as the moon kept watch over their union.


	5. Fear and Ghosts

They had rolled apart in their sleep, and Faramir awoke curled up in his dew-dappled cloak with his King’s back pressed against his own. He gingerly sat up, feeling each ache from the unorthodox sleeping position more fully now than he would had even five years before. The star-speckled blackness of the eastern horizon had just begun to pale into deep blue, the color of Aragorn’s eyes last night right after. . .

After what? Was there a name for what had passed between them? All grogginess fled Faramir with the first blush that tinged his cheeks at the memory, and he watched the sleeping form beside him, studying the curve of his side as Aragorn had also had curled up in his cloak against the early-morning chill.

The kiss had come unexpectedly, the manifestation of an intimacy so real that Faramir had never even dared to hope to experience something so good again. He reached a tentative hand out to Aragorn, almost needing to prove to himself that the old ranger indeed lay beside him, and was not another dream of happiness sent to torment him in his days of despair.

 _‘But this is torment, sweet Faramir. The pleasure you seek will be bought at a price more dear that you are willing to face.’_ A familiar voice rasped inside Faramir’s mind; a voice not unlike his own, but filled with gleeful venom. It was a voice that had followed him all his life, whispered to him in his moments of weakness, filling him with self-loathing as he lay helplessly under it’s whip of lies.

The tips of his fingers had barely brushed the damp, rough cloth that covered Aragorn’s shoulder when he recoiled them sharply, consumed utterly by the foul words that oozed through the dark channels of his mind.

_‘Elessar, high King of the reunited Kingdoms, will abandon all reason in pursuit of his lust for you, his loyal Steward and prince. Do not believe it is anything more, for at the first chance he will have you on your knees, serving him like a common whore, relieving himself of a need that he had long repressed within himself. He will call upon you simply to feast upon your flesh; and you, like a long-beaten dog, will blindly follow the master who offers a single kind hand against his scarred flanks, calling it love, for you no longer know what love is unless it is tainted with pain and betrayal.’_

Faramir had curled up against himself again; rocking himself as he clutched his arms around his head, as if he could shield himself from the toxic voice ringing in his skull.

 _‘No,’_ a tiny voice argued back, its voice like a whisper against a howling storm, _‘that was not lust last night. That was too pure, too good.’_

The wicked voice cackled. _‘You really think that Elessar, most noble and hardened of all men, would lower himself to love a weakling prince? A sniveling boy who could never make a single person happy in his entire life?’_

Faramir had risen, and was stumbling towards the gurgling river, trying to drown out the caustic malice that had quickly eaten away the tranquility he had felt in the King’s arms. He sank to his knees on the graveled beach as he brought his hands to his face, his breathing ragged. Faramir felt moisture on his fingertips, coursing down his cheeks, and he wiped furiously at the tears with his dirty hands. He would not cry!

Cursing himself as he felt another pair of hot tears racing towards his chin, he fumbled with the knife at his side. He had cleaned it carefully after his dinner, and the steel blade seemed to almost glow in the growing light. He stole a quick glance to Aragorn’s form back at the camp, who had not shifted; and Faramir choked down his sorrow as an pang of longing for what could never be ran through him again. He knew that in the end, the voice was right. It was always right.

Slowly he removed his vanbracers--Boromir’s armor passed on to him by Aragorn not long after his ascension to the throne--and neatly rolled up his sleeves. The brisk air caressed the skin of Faramir’s forearms, and he stopped momentarily to gently finger the countless scars that lay in neat, horizontal ranks down the inside lengths of each arm. Some were old and pale, others still angry red and fresh. These were not scars left by battle-foes: they were far to numerous, far to methodical. No, these were casualties of the private war that had raged inside Faramir for almost his entire life, and he selected a spot on his arm near the crook of his elbow for his next sacrifice.

The knife-blade did not cut too deeply, for Faramir had mastered the art of the shallow stroke. He shuddered as a familiar bliss rushed over him at the first bite of steel; and his tears stopped cold in his eyes as his grief bled down his arm, leaving bright, crimson splashed upon the tiny rocks below. He savored the moment, the evil voice sighing once before falling into stillness, and Faramir was glad that no matter what happened, no matter who he lost, he still had this peace to fall back upon.

 

**********

The minute Aragorn awoke, he knew something was not right. He sat up smoothly, looking about him, and realized with a start that Faramir was not in camp. Standing, he reached for the sword at his side, squinting against the lavender sky to find the trouble he was sure was afoot.

He felt the hoof beats of Faramir’s horse through the soil before he saw the beast and rider crest a nearby hill, coming from the direction of the guard’s camp, and Aragorn’s heart swelled at how striking the prince looked against the infant daylight. His reaction surprised him as much as it pleased him, reminding him once again that what had passed between them in the night had not been a fleeting encounter, but the beginning of something infinitely more precious.

“Good morning, sire.” Faramir nodded his head solemnly to his King, not dismounting from his horse even after he had entered their camp, “The sun has almost risen, and it is time for us to return to Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn was taken aback by the overnight change in his friend. This grave, hard Faramir that stared coldly down at him looked nothing like the man that had just hours ago shared his deepest secrets, and a sweet, intimate beauty with Aragorn. What had brought about so sudden a shift?

“Good morning, Faramir,” Aragorn replied, puzzled, “the ride back is not so far that we need set out so early.”

“No, it is not, my Lord, but I have pressing business I neglected to remember when I accepted your invitation yesterday. I did not realize we would be staying the night, and scheduled an afternoon meeting today that I cannot ignore.” Faramir was almost too insistent, and Aragorn was suddenly unsure as to the truth of Faramir’s words.

“I have alerted the guard,” Faramir continued, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and if you wish to remain they will stay behind with you. I beg your pardon, my liege, but I must be off.”

“Faramir. . .” Aragorn trailed off, unsure what to say. He was confused, and more than a little hurt at this change of events. He thought he had reached Faramir, opened his heart. Indeed, it seemed that there was much about his prince that he did not know.

Seeing the injury in Aragorn’s eyes, Faramir was almost overcome with the desire to jump off his horse and take his King in his arms, taste Aragorn’s lips one last time, reassure him that what he did, he did for the good of both of them. But his old wall held him back, his brightness trapped behind bricks of ice cemented by the dried blood crusting under the hidden bandage on his arm.

“I thank you, my Lord, for everything you did for me last night. I will not forget this birthday for as long as I live.” Faramir said softly, his roiling emotions finding a small chink in his armor, much to his mutual surprise and disappointment. Before Aragorn could reply, Faramir dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and rode away from his King, leaving Elessar alone in the chilled dawn with only the memory of Faramir’s warmth.

**********

Aragorn’s heart felt as if it had been squeezed by a giant fist as he rode back to Minas Tirith in the company of his guards, his mind flooded with thoughts that threw themselves against each other into a painful jumble. He could not see Faramir before him, although he had set out almost immediately after his departure, and Aragorn suspected that his Steward had raced away as quickly as his steed could carry him in the hopes of not being caught by the King.

 _‘You should not have kissed him so, you fool. You sought to offer his comfort and friendship, and instead have driven him from you further with your own confused longings,’_ a cold voice rang in his head.

 _‘But he desired it as much as I did,’_ Aragorn replied to himself, _‘there was no doubt, no regret in his eyes after our lips parted. Something changed him in the morning.’_

_‘He had time to think, and realized that the taste of men is not to his liking.’_

_‘He seemed hungry enough for it when he left. I noticed how he stared at my lips as he spoke his parting words, the flicker of tenderness as he thanked me. . .’_

_‘Or are you imagining things again, Aragorn,’_ the voice hissed low, pricking at the freshly revealed nerve of his own past, _‘you see yourself as a reader of people, but when it comes to the riddle of their desires you have always found yourself unable to decipher their hearts and bodies.’_

 _‘I was young,’_ Aragorn’s inner voice suddenly sounded small, filled with the tremble of one whose innocence is only a further sweetness for those who would devour him willingly, _‘I didn’t know any better.’_

 _‘No you didn’t,’_ the voice mercilessly fed off his uncertainty, _‘you were so green, so eager to please, that you believed him when he told you he loved you, ignoring the warnings of deception that came from all sides, because you needed that illusion. That was your first lesson in betrayal, sweet Aragorn, or should I call you--’_

“Enough!” Aragorn hadn’t realized he had spoke aloud until his guardsmen had all turned their attention to him, looking on their King in bewilderment. The treacherous voice gave a final pleased growl before falling into silence, and Elessar quickly composed himself before speaking again. “My horse needs water.”

He guided his horse to the river, hoping he was indeed thirsty, or Aragorn would feel even more foolish in front of his men.

It was only when he held the reins still as the stallion drank did he realize that his hands shook. He had not heard that voice for so long, his doubts rising against him to assail him with his past weaknesses. He had tried so hard to forget those years, to lock away the memories and all they signified in the darkest recesses of his soul. He had not even spoken of them with his wife, with whom he shared almost every other thought and secret, too ashamed to recount to her the heartbreak and humiliation he had borne for the false promise of a great one’s love.

Gritting his teeth, he spurred his horse forward, riding harder now than he had when he had broken camp hours before. He would not let himself be mastered by fear and ghosts. There was something so different about what he had felt with Faramir, something so purely light that he could not bear the thought of not sharing it with him again. This was not a blind pursuit for love disguised as lust.

But what it was Aragorn truly could not say.


	6. Honesty

“Arwen?” Aragorn called quietly into their darkened bedroom, shutting the door gently behind him. The thick curtains were drawn against the bright afternoon sun, and he could just make out his wife’s lithe form lying upon the large bed. It troubled him to see the normally active Queen still asleep at such a late hour of the day, and she had never been one much for naps. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, Estel,” her voice was soft, but not weak, as she sat up slowly to greet her husband as she yawned, “did you enjoy your trip with Faramir?”

Aragorn was suddenly glad for the dim light, as it hid the flush that crept up his bearded cheeks as he as joined Arwen on the bed. “I did,” he replied simply, trying to keep his voice casual. He kissed her sleepy lips gently, and was caught off guard as his chin met smooth skin, not neatly-trimmed little hairs that rasped against his own.

 _‘One kiss, and I’m already as familiar with his lips as I am with my wife’s,’_ Aragorn thought, and immediately felt wretched as Arwen’s little hand reached up to lovingly cup his face.

“Aragorn?” Arwen asked as her husband pulled away more abruptly than he meant to, “is something the matter?”

“Why are you still abed at this hour? Are you ill?” Aragorn dodged the question, placing a hand to Arwen’s pale forehead. He was relieved to find it cool, but it gave him no further clues as to her state.

“No, I’ve just felt a bit fatigued for the past few days.” Arwen wasn’t as concerned as Aragorn, and she stretched and wrapped her arms around him, nuzzling his neck with her lips. “But, now that you’re home I’m not so tired any more.”

She began nipping at the skin playfully, the salt of his sweat rousing her hands to more insistent caresses. She began to unlace his shirt, her fingers slipping under the fabric, toying with the hair-dappled skin of his chest.

Aragorn groaned and closed his eyes as her deft fingers came in contact with his flesh. He kissed her again, more urgently, sliding his hand up the length of her slender arm. . .and felt his heart wrench unexpectedly as he did not feel the bulge of compact muscle underneath the thin fabric.

He tried to push the thought aside, enjoy the soft lushness of Arwen’s womanly body. But as more of his clothes were removed, and more maddening kisses rained upon the exposed skin, the harder it was to block out the image of Faramir. He could taste the smoky fullness of his kiss each time Arwen’s lips touched his, the calloused touch of his gentle archer’s hands with each caress, the hardness of his body as it pressed against his own...

“Estel?” Arwen stopped suddenly, sitting up to look at Aragorn. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, his breathing was ragged, and the look on his face was not one of rapture, but of anguish. “Tell me what is troubling you.” She was insistent, but calm, her desires put aside in light of her beloved’s need.

Aragorn opened his eyes, and as they were met by her own dark pools he was overwhelmed by the pure, open love that radiated from them. He could tell her concern for him overrode any disappointment she may have felt at her failed attempt at seduction, as she stroked his face softly, waiting for him to speak.

He loved this woman, he had since he was a brash youth living under her father’s roof. For decades, nay, scores of years, he had been his beacon of light in the lonely darkness, the slim thread of hope he held onto when all had seemed lost. Now, after an eternity of separation they could freely share their joy, and their sorrow, and yes, finally their secrets.

Aragorn sat up as well, reclining against the carved wooden headboard of the bed. He looked at his hands, clasped tightly together in his lap, and took a deep breath as he searched for his courage. Of all the harrowing tasks he had undertaken in his long life, this would be one of the most difficult he had ever faced. The trial of complete honesty.

“My love, there are things about me I have yet to tell you,” Aragorn began, meeting her eyes again to gauge her reaction. When she only nodded encouragingly, he pressed on, “there is a secret that I had hidden even from myself, something I tried to make myself forget, for I believed it too shameful to even whisper into the light of day.

“Last night, with Faramir, that secret made itself known to me again, and I was not frightened. Which now, in the aftermath, frightens me even more.” Aragorn’s hands trembled as he spoke, and Arwen gently pried them apart to clasp them in her own.

“Do you wish to share this secret with me, Estel?” Arwen asked, lending him strength through her grace and love, as she always had.

The King nodded, not trusting his voice suddenly, his lips opening and closing as the words struggled to leave his throat. Another gentle squeeze from his wife’s hands freed them, and with a final deep breath he told her the truth of his desires.

 

**********

 

It was near midnight when Faramir finally looked up from his writing, his eyes bleary as he took a bite of the cold bread the servants had left for him hours before. He had made it back to the White City just in time to change and meet with the cartographers as he had planned, and had set straight to work again in the library, burying his roiling emotions behind the familiar wall of duty.

It had been almost impossible to concentrate, and he had crumpled and restarted the same page over and over again before setting into a flow. Each time his hands had touched the rough paper, he had been reminded of the texture of Aragorn’s skin under his fingers, and fresh memories would slam against the old barriers in time to his pounding heart.

He was a fool. A Steward should not assume such familiarity with the King. He should not have shared such intimate secrets.

 _‘Each time you open yourself, Faramir, nothing but harm and shame comes from it,’_ the dark voice within sounded almost pitying, as if it reminded Faramir of his past failings for his own good. _‘Why do you keep reaching out? Why do you keep hoping for someone to see past your walls, break the armor we have worked so hard to build together? You would be left with nothing. All I want is to protect you.’_

Faramir sighed shakily and rubbed his tired eyes, too weary to truly fight against this internal assault. He felt bruised, raw almost, as if he had been ripped open and sewn back shut again.

He should not let his wayward feelings affect him so! Faramir stood furiously, a sudden rush of determination propelling him into a vigorous pace he told himself was just to stretch his cramping legs. It was a mistake, a moment, nothing more. There was nothing to fear, nothing to dwell on, for it had meant _nothing_.  

To work again! Yes, there was always work to draw the mind away from frivolities and petty troubles. Work was important! Faramir strode between the high shelves of books, scanning the titles, ignoring the subtle blur of his vision as his aching eyes tried to adjust to the dim light.

He had just plucked the tome he needed from one of the racks in the back of the library, when he heard a soft knock at the door. Probably the servant again, hoping to clear the plates of old food Faramir kept insisting she leave behind long after the mealtime had ended. Finally ready to let her win this battle, for the plates were mostly clear and cluttering up his writing space, he paid it no heed as the door slowly opened, flipping through the large volume in his arms.

“Faramir?”

He almost dropped the book when Aragorn’s voice reached his ears, filled with hesitant concern. Faramir’s already heavy pulse quickened, and he slowly peered his head from behind the shelves. He did not know if he was capable of facing Aragorn again without humiliating himself further.

Of course the King would want to know his Steward had returned safely from their trip. There was nothing strange about that. But to pay a visit at so late an hour was odd indeed. Shouldn’t he be abed with his Queen by now?

The prince observed with his breath held as the King approached the worktable, his bearded face almost unreadable, as Aragorn surveyed the piles of crumpled papers that lay scattered about the floor, the dirty dishes, and the reams of neatly hand-written pages. He ran a single finger over the page Faramir had last been working on, slowly tracing the words, seemingly lost in thought.

The King’s back straightened suddenly, and he looked about sharply, his eyes darting even more carefully among the dark spots between the shelves.

 _‘He knows someone is watching him!’_  Faramir was frozen in place, paralyzed suddenly by the overwhelming need not to be seen, not to be recognized, to be another dark form lost in the shadows.

Aragorn stood for a good minute, probing the darkness with his keen eyes, until he was satisfied that no threat awaited him in the corners of the library. Still guarded, he made his way to the door, and Faramir did not miss the look of disappointment that crossed the King’s handsome face.

It was that moment of weakness that was his downfall, and Faramir carelessly leaned just a little too far as he watched Aragorn leave. Before he knew it, the shelf he stood behind began to pitch forward, and with a yelp Faramir dropped the book he was holding to grab at the falling stacks.

Aragorn was at his side in a flash, and within moments the two men had wrestled the shelving rack back into its place without a single book dropping out of place. Catastrophe averted, Faramir mumbled a thanks as he picked up the tome he’d dropped, wishing to sink through the floor under the King’s puzzled gaze.

“Are you alright?” Aragorn asked as studied his Steward closely, taking in his drawn appearance and red-rimmed eyes, “Are you still working at this late hour?”

Faramir nodded. “I was trying to reach a book on the high shelf and slipped,” he explained, the excuse sounding lame even to his ears, and he winced as the King arched an eyebrow at him.

“Did you not hear me call for you a moment ago?” Aragorn was becoming more concerned. It was distinctly out of character for Faramir to lie so blatantly.

The Steward shook his head, not daring meet Elessar in the eye. He clutched his book tighter to his chest, as if it were a shield, and Aragorn could not bear the aura of sadness that radiated from his friend.

“Faramir, why are you hiding from me?” Aragorn sighed, and taking a gamble, raised his hand to gently brush away a stray strand of hair that had fallen in Faramir’s face during their battle with the bookshelf.

The younger man winced before the King’s hand had even brushed his skin, and Aragorn’s face burned as he hurriedly put his hand down again. There he went assuming things again.

It was too much for Faramir to see such embarrassment on his King’s face, to know he was the cause, and the fresh ice coating his heart began to crack under his own desire to take the kindness being offered him.

“I am sorry if I acted out of turn last night, Faramir,” Aragorn said slowly, licking his lips nervously. The little gesture surprised Faramir, who was not used to seeing his King so discomposed.

“I did not wish to bring you distress, nor did I want to drive you further from me.” Aragorn said softly, the low volume doing little to hide the tremble in his voice, “You are my friend, Faramir, and I do not want anything to change that.”

Faramir’s cold face seemed to almost melt, as if Aragorn’s words were the keys to the locks the Steward hid himself behind. He could not bear to see Aragorn so heartbroken, and the storm of emotions finally rushed past the last shreds of Faramir’s defenses.

“No, my liege, it is I who am sorry,” Faramir’s words came fast, his eyes dark and turbulent, “it is I who assumed too much from you, who took advantage of your generosity, who burdened you with the troubles of--”

“Faramir! Stop it!” Aragorn’s voice was commanding, but gentle. This was more like the prince he had seen last night, and he appeared suddenly so honest and open, a stark contrast to the stoic façade he always displayed.

“You are never a burden to me, my prince,” Aragorn continued, and his eyes reflected the same protective affection they had the night before, “I am glad you were able to share your thoughts with me so freely.”

Faramir looked away again, biting his lower lip. Aragorn’s heart leapt at the precious sight, and he recalled how sweet that lip had tasted trapped between his own. . .

“I do not regret what passed between us, Faramir,” Aragorn said softly, hoping he did not sound as nervous as he felt. He let another moment of silence pass, his heart beating anxiously, before asking the question that had burned in his mind since dawn had broken, “Do you?”

Aragorn had not thought it possible for Faramir to shrink into himself anymore, but he indeed drew himself tighter, as if he could physically shield himself from the conflict within him. For a terrible moment, Aragorn was not sure the Steward would answer him, until Faramir’s low voice came from the curtain of hair he had hidden his red face behind.

“I only regret what sorrow I have brought to you.” he whispered.

“Sorrow?” Aragorn’s face was a mix of confusion and pity. “Faramir, you have brought me no pain.”

Faramir drew a shaking breath as he finally raised his head, but his eyes locked upon the ceiling, pointedly avoiding the King’s eyes.

“This is wrong.” He said carefully, each word deliberate, “I have tempted you with the hope of something that can never be.”

“Faramir,” Aragorn’s voice was low and tender, and it wrapped itself around the prince’s mind like a warm blanket about his chilled thoughts, “what if I told you it _could_ be?”

The Steward shook his head again, this time more vigorously, and his eyes closed tight against the light in his King’s eyes.

“I would not believe you.”

“Would you believe this?” Aragorn cupped Faramir’s jaw, and gently steered the Steward’s face within range of his lips. There was only a little flinch from Faramir, an involuntary reflex, before Aragorn pressed his parted lips hungrily against his prince’s. A little moan of protest died within Faramir’s captive mouth, to be replaced by Aragorn’s questing tongue, and the King pushed his Steward against the stone wall behind them, the book falling to the ground again, unnoticed.

Not in all his fantasies had Faramir ever thought anyone would ever kiss him this richly, this fully, and he whimpered again when he felt himself trapped between his King and the wall. Faramir could not help but wrap his arms around Aragorn’s shoulders, drawing him closer, letting his hands play with the cascades of hair that rained down the King’s back. This was too good, too real: the heat of the King’s breath as it danced across his cheeks, the softness of his lips against his as they murmured wordless promises, the firmness of Aragorn’s body pressed against him.

“No!” Faramir yanked his lips from Aragorn’s and twisted out of the embrace, spinning so hard he fell to the ground in a crouch, “I cannot do this!”

“Faramir?” Aragorn was shocked by the violence of the outburst, the raw pain painted on his prince’s face in reaction to what moments before had been sheer bliss to them both. Faramir was so tightly wound, a spring ready to break free, and the intensity in him was almost frightening to the King.

“If you are not strong enough to resist, than I will have to be,” Faramir choked, grasping his chest over his heart, and his blazing eyes finally locked with Aragorn’s, “For I will not commit treason against my Queen! I will not shame her as I was, for that is too great a bitterness for one so good as her to bear!”

Aragorn understood suddenly why Faramir was filled with such disbelief. Living for years with a wife whose secret desires had driven them apart, he feared destroying the relationship that Aragorn shared with Arwen, breaking the royal bond so freshly forged. But, if truly all Faramir feared was dishonoring the Queen...

“It is not a secret from her, my friend.” the King said, his tone cautious for Faramir’s benefit, “and she has given us her blessing.”

The color drained from the prince’s face like water down a drain, and he had to grasp the bookshelf beside him to keep from falling completely to the floor.

“By the Valar, why did you tell her!” Faramir gasped, livid with shame, knowing he was contradicting himself and not caring any more. This was all too much for him to bear at once!

“Because I want there to be no secrets between the ones I love.” There was no hesitation in the King’s voice as he spoke the final word, and it drove itself into Faramir’s heart like an arrow. He looked up to Aragorn in shock, not daring believe what he had just heard.

“The ones you love?” Faramir repeated, his brows knitting in disbelief, “You, you _love_ me?” It sounded foreign on his tongue, an old prayer long forgotten, and his vision distorted again as the word echoed through his mind.

Aragorn’s heart twisted as he saw the tiny spark of hope rekindle in Faramir’s eyes.

“I do.” Aragorn said simply, but his tone revealed the true power behind his words. He offered his hand to Faramir, helping the reeling man to his feet, so they could meet eye to eye.

Faramir brought his hands up to his face, covering his mouth with both hands, scarcely breathing. He closed his eyes, and twin droplets trickled from between the cage of his pale eyelashes. Aragorn gently wiped one of the tears from Faramir’s cheek, amazed at what effect that single word had over his prince, and the King drank in the luminous beauty that shone so brightly from Faramir.

The moment the King’s fingertip traced the damp trail on his cheek, Faramir’s eyelids flew open, and the steely coldness that met him made Aragorn take a step back. He was staring at a stranger, one who bore him nothing but calculated regard. What had happened to his prince?

“You should not have told me.” Faramir said calmly, and the lack of emotion in his voice horrified Aragorn. The Steward pulled away from Elessar, avoiding his gaze again, and with a long-practiced motion viciously swiped away the tears with the heels of his palms.

“You do not reciprocate my feelings then.” Aragorn said, trying to keep his voice from quavering, trying to hide his growing remorse. He was such a fool.

Faramir sighed. “I do, my King,” he said matter-of-factly, as he picked up his dropped book and replaced it in it’s spot on the shelf, so distant he could have been an acquaintance discussing the weather, making his confession of love sound like nothing more than a bit of idle conversation.

“Then pray tell me, why do you recoil from me?” Aragorn said with mounting frustration, for he did not know which way the winds of Faramir’s moods would blow anymore. This was too strange, all these sudden shifts, as if there were two Faramirs who stood before him.

“Because, Elessar, the more love there is, the more sorrow will come of it.” Faramir sounded as if he was giving a lecture, “and as I told you when we began this debate, I will not doom you to a bitter life of regret.”

With a curt, but polite nod, Faramir turned his back on Aragorn once again, his shoulders straight. It was the King’s turn to remain frozen among the shadows, feeling helpless to stop the Steward from walking away from him again.

Maybe it was best just to let this go.

“I do this _because_ I love you, my Liege,” Faramir’s stony voice drifted from the open door, and when he looked at Aragorn, it was as if his face had been carved in white marble, “Never doubt that.”

And with that he was gone again, leaving nothing behind but the taste of ash on Aragorn’s lips.


	7. Shattered

_‘Why did you do that to me?’_ Faramir screamed, watching himself walk with deliberate steps back to his bedchamber. This had never happened to him before, the absolute loss of himself as the voice took over his thoughts and actions. He felt like he was in a dream, drifting through his thoughts, his soul disconnected from his body. _‘Why did you lie to him like that!’_

“Hush, little one.” The wicked voice spoke using Faramir’s own mouth, but the words sounded distorted, tainted and hollow. “I did not lie. You do love him. And you leave for his own good.”

Faramir turned the corner, and the voice fell silent as he nodded at the two guards that straightened to attention as he passed them at their watch. Faramir wanted to call out to them, ask them to speak to him, pull him out of this madness. But the voice kept Faramir’s lips pressed firmly shut until he had climbed the stairs, away from everyone, and back into the isolation of his sparse bedchamber.

“I do this for you, Faramir,” he found himself saying to himself, “I do this to protect your sniveling, broken soul!”

Faramir shrank even deeper into the darkness to hear the carefully crafted malice coming from his own lips. This was so much worse than usual; he was used to hearing the voice as a echo to his own thoughts, a constant reminder of his true quality. But to hear it speak using his own mouth, to bring each painful word in brutal reality. . .

“Do you forget everything we’ve done together, everything we’ve weathered?” the voice said as it calmly poured them a tall glass of brandy from the decanter on the mantle of the fireplace. He took a long slow drink, almost emptying the glass, and the alcohol warmed his stomach as the fire beside him warmed his skin, soothing him a little.

“I came to help you, my Faramir.” The voice was gentler, coaxing. “Do not ever doubt that. I am the only one who stays with you. If I were to leave, you would have no one left.”

 _‘But Aragorn would still be with me,’_  Faramir thought wistfully, a new defiance growing within him against the voice. He did not like feeling so disjointed, so out of control, and just thinking of the blue tranquility of his King’s eyes brought Faramir a new strength.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” the voice sighed before finishing off the glass of amber liquor. “He is trying to lure you to his bed, nothing more!”

 _‘There are three words true men of Gondor do not use for deception and lies,’_ Faramir told himself firmly, reciting one of the few lessons his father had taught him that he felt in his heart of hearts was true, _‘honor, loyalty, and love. And Aragorn--no, Elessar, is indeed a true man of Gondor.’_

“The words of a romantic, my boy. Times have changed since your father upheld such ideals.” The voice sighed as it downed a second glass of brandy, and Faramir began to feel as if he was blurring, the little barriers within him being washed away by the warm liquid glow, leaving him surprisingly complacent. Maybe it wasn’t so bad letting the voice speak for him after all.

 _‘Faramir, you are hurting. Would you not feel better if you let your arms weep a little? It has been a long night for us both,’_ the voice purred inside him again. Though Faramir still had no mastery of his own vocal chords it was comforting to hear the voice back where it belonged, here inside, next to him.

Faramir moved involuntarily to his dresser, seduced by brandy and the familiar promise of comfort. He felt as if he were floating, the voice whispering lovingly as he opened the top drawer and carefully pulled out a bundle wrapped in velvet so old it appeared silken. Unrolling the fabric slowly across the dresser top, Faramir’s breath came with a shudder of near-pleasure as sharp silver glinted from the dark cloth, a beacon light through the darkness.

With sure hands, he rolled up the sleeves of his fine linen shirt, just high enough to avoid the coming blood, but not so high to cut the circulation to his arms. From the drawer he also pulled a roll of white muslin strips, already sized for quick bandaging, and a whetting stone upon which to sharpen the blade, his old friend.

It was almost rote, something he didn’t need to think of, as he picked up the gritty whetting stone, his eyes searching the room for the glass of water he needed to moisten it so he could sharpen the knife. When it was razor clean, it could cut through his flesh like butter, leaving nothing but a spider-thread of a scar behind on his arm.

Faramir found the glass next to his bed, half full with two day old water, but he was not thinking as he reached down to grab it. The brandy had dulled his fingers, and before he knew what was happening, the glass tipped over and spilled it’s contents across the small table, dribbling onto the floor, wetting the pages of the red-leather bound book that had rested next to the small oil lantern.

The book!

Quick as thought, Faramir snatched his birthday present from the spreading puddle, dropping the whetting stone as he wiped fiercely at the water that coated the book’s fine cover with the hem of his shirt. He was in a state of near panic trying to dry the ancient pages. How could he be so clumsy with such a rare treasure? Forgetting his original intent, he went to the crackling hearth, hoping the warmth of the fire would help dry the pages.

 _‘You poor little fool. You’ve ruined your gift,’_  the voice said sadly _,_ _‘how could Aragorn trust you with his heart when you so wantonly destroy the other gifts he gives you?’_

 _‘It wasn’t my fault.’_ Faramir’s inner voice was small, rattled already by the damage done to his most prized possession, _‘my hand slipped.’_

 _‘Nothing is ever your fault, is it Faramir?’_  the voice sighed, its sympathy laced with a cruelty as familiar as a lover’s touch. ‘ _It wasn’t your fault your mother died, though it was your birth that weakened her. It wasn’t your fault your father didn’t love you, although you never tried hard enough to make him happy. It wasn’t your fault Osgiliath fell, though you did not ask for reinforcements until it was too late. It wasn’t your fault Boromir never came home, though you should have gone in his pla--’_

“Stop it!” Faramir finally found control over his throat, and his own voice rang bitterly through his room, ending in a dry sob.

 _‘Cut yourself free, Faramir. Burn the book. You do not deserve it.’_ The voice was soothing in Faramir’s mind, as if it were trying to make amends, _‘You have ruined it already. How do you think your King will feel to know you have destroyed his generous gift, his elven family heirloom? Spare yourself the shame and give it the end it deserves.’_

Faramir’s hands shook as he held the book over the fire, the normally silver words on the spine churning orange, as if they were melting into the red leather. All he had to do was let go, and it would all be over, his love burning to ashes like the tales and poems upon the dry parchment.

Dry.

 _‘That is where the true beauty of Elven craft-work lays._ ’ The memory of Aragorn’s pleased voice rang through the darkness in Faramir’s mind, as the prince’s fingers searched upon the side of the book for evidence of his spill. The paper was as dry as his throat.

The book wad fine, testament to the strong magic woven into its pages.

“No!” Faramir cried out, pulling his hands out of the increasing heat of the flames, cradling the book to his chest. “This is mine, and you will not claim any part of it! I am tired of you and your lies!”

 _‘Do what I say, little one,_ ’  the voice snarled, _‘or you will know what real pain is again! Burn it! Burn him from your mind!’_

“I will not!” Faramir yelled into the empty room, not caring who heard save the shadow shrinking within him, the darkness that was suddenly receding.

No, it had been coiling, and it sprang upon Faramir anew, shrieking and clawing from within, tearing at his freshly exposed tenderness.

 _‘Elessar will destroy you! He will devour you whole!_ ’  it cried, and Faramir doubled over, as if in physical pain, the precious book falling from his hands onto the floor.

“I would rather be destroyed by him,” Faramir growled, panting against each word as he forced himself to stand erect, swaying under the weight of the attack, “than be a slave to you for the rest of my life!”

The voice screamed in Faramir’s mind as it jabbed at him again with a wordless lance of pain, and Faramir screamed in return, trying to drown out the sound. His arms flailed involuntarily, sweeping across the mantle before him, knocking all it’s contents to the hard, stone ground.

The sound of breaking glass seemed only to fuel the grip of the darkness, and his hands itched for more to destroy, to shatter, as his soul was shattering into fragments within him. . .

As he hurled the remainder of the decanter of brandy across the room, he heard himself laugh, a bitter, frightening sound almost as chilling as the cry of a Nazgul, and Faramir knew in that moment that he was losing this battle. . .as he had lost everything else in his life.

            ***********

Arwen smiled as she plucked a bite of sweetmeat from the tart in her hand, half-hiding the little plate in her nighttime robe as she made her way stealthily back to her bedchamber. Despite her daytime fatigue, her nights of late had been plagued with a sleeplessness fueled by odd culinary cravings she could not explain. This was not the first time she had ventured to the kitchens in her bedclothes in search of midnight snacks. In fact, she was coming to know the late-night bakers well as they toiled tirelessly to make the morning bread for the nobles of the citadel, and the warm pastry she nestled against her had been a special gift from the apprentice chef, who had come to expect her late-night visits.

Aragorn had still not returned to bed, despite the late hour, and Arwen’s heart was light as she thought of the reason for his absence, remembering his heartfelt confession to her earlier that day. It had been long since she had seen him so unsure, so unused was he to feelings of deep love. It had reminded her much of their courtship, his shy bravado, and truly, she did not begrudge her husband his feelings for his Steward. She was secure in Aragorn’s love for her, for she knew he would not have walked through fire and death to have her by his side had he not truly wanted to spend the rest of his days with her.

There was room enough in Aragorn’s heart for both of them, and Arwen was more than willing to share him if it meant her love was following his true desire. Too often he had been waylaid and denied, forced to fulfill his duties rather than follow his dreams, and if allowing him the freedom to pursue Faramir’s love truly made him happy, than it was what Arwen wanted for him. Faramir was a good man, and he was indeed a fine match for her Estel. Truthfully, few other men would have met her approval the way the sad, gentle Steward had, and she hoped Aragorn would be able to bring Faramir the joy he truly deserved in turn.

“I will not!” An anguished voice rang though the hall, breaking the serenity of her thoughts. Arwen stopped in her steps, a fresh bite of tart halfway to her lips, and listened for the source of the cry.

A series of muffled words led her feet slowly down the hall, until a heartbreaking shriek followed by the crash of breaking glass forced them into a rapid, cautious trot down the empty hallway. To her alarm, the sounds seemed to be coming from Faramir’s bedchamber, and she stopped before his door, her breath coming quick and shallow as she listened to the broken moans that came from within.

Someone was assailing Faramir! Without hesitation, she silently placed her plate on the floor beside her so she could have both hands free to grip the long, elven dagger she always carried under her robe. If there was indeed someone hurting her friend, then they would find swift justice at the end of the Queen’s blade.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the unlocked door open, drawing her knife as she burst into the room, ready to fight for her Steward’s life.

Something clear and jagged was flying at her the second she entered the room, and Arwen’s inborn reflexes saved her from catching the broken decanter square in her face. She ducked just in time to let the vessel smash onto the door behind her, the sound of the glass splintering mingled with the soul-cutting sound of cruel laughter.

The terrible sound stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun, and Arwen realized with an awestruck horror that the twisted cackle had come from Faramir, who now stood pale and trembling in the middle of the room, his eyes locked on her taut form in the doorway.

“Your Highness,” Faramir choked, his wide eyes flickering between Arwen’s puzzled face and the glass shards laying at her feet, “Your Highness. . .”

“Faramir, are you alright?” Arwen asked sternly, her eyes darting around the room for the attacker she was sure the prince had been fending off. “What is going on in here?”

But Faramir did not respond, though his mouth opened and closed as if forming words for which he had not the strength to utter. He staggered to his Queen, as if in a trance, and before she could stop him, he dropped to his knees before her, onto the remains of the broken decanter.

The shattered glass embedded itself deep into the flesh of his knees, but Faramir seemed not to notice as he grasped at Arwen’s summer robe, clinging desperately to the gauzy fabric as strangled sounds came from his throat. Arwen was unsure what to do, so shocked was she by this odd behavior in Faramir, that she could only stand there, brandishing her knife uselessly as the prince’s head came to rest at her bare feet.

“Forgive me, my Queen.” Faramir’s words were so breathlessly quiet Arwen could barely hear them, though she did not miss the utter despair and remorse in his voice. “By the Valar, my Lady, execute me for my treason against you, for hurting you!”

It was only then she felt the cool trickle of slow blood upon her cheek, as the single drop from the tiny cut on her forehead made it’s way down to her chin. She had suffered worse wounds when wrestling with her brothers as a babe, and yet here was Faramir trying to stifle his cries of pain as he ground his forehead deeper into the broken glass, in penitence for inflicting an accidental wound on her.

“Faramir.” the Queen’s voice was soft but insistent as she carefully hunkered down to be closer to the wounded man, avoiding the carpet of glass. She placed a delicate hand on the back of the Steward’s head, surprised to find the normally soft curls damp and ragged to the touch. “Are you alright? What happened in here?”

Her repeated words fell on deaf ears, as she pulled Faramir’s tortured face to meet hers. Arwen bit back a gasp to look at him: his eyes wild and fragmented, his face coated with fresh blood as it flowed freely from the multiple small lacerations decorating his brow. Little pieces of broken glass glimmered like jewels in the wounds; a crown of pain for a shattered soul.

“Help me,” Faramir whispered, his voice a ghost. He reached a red-streaked hand out to her as he trembled, looking through Arwen as if calling to her from a deep blackness. “Please, help me.”

It was only then that Arwen saw the scars on his forearms, the careful cuts in their methodical lines exposed by the rolled up shirt, and her heart constricted as she realized Faramir’s blackest secret. She had seen this before.

“I will help you, Faramir,” she said, calling upon all the light within her she could muster as she grasped his blood-stained hand in hers, “but you must tell me how.”

Faramir was shaking so badly he was making Arwen tremble in return, and she realized as she looked into his eyes that he was trapped within himself, desperately fighting again his own psyche. She could help him, yes, but there was another would could aide him better.

“Faramir, can you understand me?” Arwen asked calmly, squeezing the trembling hand reassuringly. She was relieved as the prince nodded his fair head, meeting her gaze again briefly before dropping his head to rest on her knee. She watched in horrid fascination as his blood spread like wildfire through the sheer fabric, and she knew she had to be quick.

“Do you want to talk to someone, Faramir?”

Another sharp, silent nod.

“Do you want to speak with me?”

A shake this time, vigorous and painful.

“Do you want to speak with Aragorn?”

Hesitation. Finally, a nod so small it was almost unperceivable.

Arwen nodded in return, though Faramir could not see it. The queen’s voice rang through the halls, calling urgently to the guards.

Within seconds a pair were at her side, their hands upon the hilts of their swords. Their jaws went slack to see their Steward in such a state, wounded and trembling at the queen’s feet, and they looked at her blankly for guidance, unsure what to do.

“You,” Arwen said, pointing at the younger solider, “find the King. He is most likely in his library. Be quiet about it, but bring him here as quick as you can. This is a matter of life and death.”

The young guard’s face drained of color, but he nodded nonetheless, turning and running down the hall as fast as he’s come.

“And you,” Arwen pointed to the guard that remained, her voice low and calm, keeping her own fear under tight control, “help me get him to the bed. Mind the glass.”


	8. Eye of the Storm

_‘I do this because I love you, my Liege.’_  Faramir’s voice rattled in Aragorn’s mind as he stared blankly into the fire, nursing a small glass of brandy he had stolen from the bottle on the library mantle. It seemed every room in the citadel had a decanter at the ready, a lasting remnant of Denethor’s occupation, and the library had been no exception. To weary with grief to venture back to his own bedroom, he had tarried at the site of his disgrace, mulling over both the bitter and sweet of the past day.

He could scarcely believe only twenty four hours had passed since the revelation at the campfire; for he felt that he had been taken to both a height of bliss and a depth of despair he had not encountered in all his years, nonetheless in such a short span of time.

_‘Elessar, the more love there is, the more sorrow will come of it.’_

The king sighed and shifted in the oversize chair, taking a sip of the amber liquor. He made a face as it went down, burning a glowing line from his tongue to his gullet, though it did little to warm the chill in his heart. He did not understand Faramir’s riddles, and it frustrated him as much as it concerned him. Truly, all he had wanted to do was help his prince, bring him out of his shadows by showing him how much Aragorn loved him; but now he felt that he had done nothing but hurt the Steward, driving him further away from him. 

Perhaps it would have been best for him if he had never sent for Faramir.

His melancholia was abruptly broken as the heavy door of the library slammed open, and the King was on his feet with his hand on his sword before the guard even had a chance to fully step into the room. It was not like the watchmen of the citadel to burst in uninvited, but the reprimand died on the King’s lips when he saw the soldier’s stricken expression.

“My Lord!” the young man gasped, his face red and sweating as he bowed, evidence of his frantic run to find the King, “you are needed,” he took a pained breath, “by the Queen,” another breath, “in the Steward’s chambers,” breath, “it is an emergency.”

Elessar did not hear the rest of the guard’s message, for he was already out the door, breaking into a dead run down the hallway. Something was very, very wrong. The naked fear on the guard’s face spoke to that as much as his words had, and Aragorn’s stomach knotted in anxiety as his mind swam with questions he was too scared to know the answers to.

His dread increased as he saw a second guard posted outside Faramir’s door, which was slightly ajar. A red gleam caught his eye from the ground, as if someone had scattered a handful of small rubies in the doorway. It was only when he was close enough so that the soldier pulled himself to attention did he realized what it truly was: fragments of glass, coated in blood.

“My liege, please wait here for a moment,” the guard stuttered, obviously uncomfortable with giving orders to the King. Aragorn had just opened his mouth to protest, ready to push past the man, when Arwen’s face peered around the door. Her expression was calm as ever, but the relief in her eyes at seeing him betrayed the true emotions beneath her visage. She stepped into the hallway to meet her husband, drawing her robe tightly around her with one hand as she pulled the door shut behind her.  

“Guard.” she turned towards the watchman first. “I need you to go to the house of healing and bring us more bandages, antiseptic, and water. As I told your companion, be quick, but quiet.”

The man nodded and hurried of without a word. Now that the orders had been given and were being carried out, she let out a shuddering breath, finally letting the strain show on her lovely face.

“Arwen, what is going on? What has hap--” Aragorn frantic words were interrupted as his wife quickly placed her fingertips on his lips, silencing him. Her sudden movement had opened her untied robe, and suddenly he could see the gory designs painted in crimson streaks upon her delicate nightshift, and his heart clenched in terror. What had Faramir done to her?

“Estel, I need you to be calm. Faramir needs you to be calm,” she spoke to him in her native tongue, but using the same tone she had when addressing the guards, “for he is ill and wounded, and badly needs our help.”

“What happened? Are you alright?” Aragorn forced himself to relax, keeping his voice low, though he was quickly losing his patience. But he obeyed his wife’s orders without question, for he trusted her judgment better than he did his own. Arwen was always good in a crisis, oftentimes the only one who could truly master her fear enough to face the grave task at hand.

“I’m fine. But Faramir is another matter,” Arwen sighed grimly, as she began to open the door. “I must warn you, he looks horrible, though his wounds are not grave.”

The king nodded, and steeled himself for what lay in the room beyond as Arwen led him in.

The first thing he noticed was the state of Faramir’s bedchamber: the broken glass littering the floor, the chair by the fire on it’s side, the artifacts of Faramir’s life scattered about as if thrown by a storm. His eyes followed the path of ruin to the bed, where Faramir lay motionless, the eye in this tempest of destruction.

Aragorn approached smoothly, ignoring the raging fear that threatened to engulf him, focusing only on what his eyes saw, a friend who needed him. But he almost lost his battle as he came close enough to fully see Faramir, and the shock that went through Elessar almost brought tears to his eyes.

Faramir was still awake, but his eyes were wide and glassy, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. The wounds in his forehead had slowed their torrent, but still fresh,  red lines painted themselves down his face and into his hair, trickling like gory tears. His knees, oh, by the Valar, his knees were far worse off, a mass of shattered glass and shredded tissue showing through the sliced fabric of his breeches.

“I have removed all the glass from his face,” Arwen said softly. She resumed her post beside the prostrate man and picking up a stained rag to put pressure on the injuries on Faramir’s face. “I am waiting for the antiseptic to bandage him.”

Aragorn was struck dumb by the sight, unable to fully comprehend what had happened to Faramir. This was not the work of an enemy, to be sure, but how had the prince sustained such wounds?

His eyes rested on the open medical kit on the table by the bed, which Arwen had raided to find tweezers with which to remove the glass. Luckily, Faramir had not had the time to put away his supplies from their camping trip, and the kit had been easy for her to find among the pile of gear on the floor.

“He is lost in himself, Estel,” Arwen continued, gently wiping Faramir’s slack face with another rag, “when I found him he was in a rage, throwing things and screaming, as if arguing with someone. He, he fell before me, pleading for help, before he became completely unresponsive.”

“And the wounds?” Aragorn asked, staring into Faramir’s eyes, searching for even a flicker of recognition. He was met with iron. 

“He deliberately knelt on broken glass in penitence for accidentally hurting me,” she whispered, closing her eyes against the memory.

“What madness gripped him to make him hurt himself so?” Aragorn’s words trembled, and he reached out to gently touch Faramir’s face, dismayed to find it cold and waxen. 

“An old madness, my love,” Arwen said, as she pulled Faramir’s arm from his side, showing Aragorn the ranks of scars gradating from white to red, Faramir’s chronicle of self-mutilation laid bare to the King’s horrified eyes.

“By the Valar,” he whispered hoarsely, and the tears he’d so valiantly fought back finally broke through and spilled down his cheeks. Aragorn had known Faramir was consumed by sadness, a long-seated depression, but he never would have imagined that the prince hurt himself so brutally. . .and so regularly.

His eyes lingered upon the reddest marks, the thin scabs surrounded by a pink healing halo, and dread twisted in Aragorn’s belly as he realized just how fresh these wounds were. They appeared no more than a few hours old.

_‘He cut himself because of you,’_ Aragorn’s inner voice rasped, _‘you drove him to this.’_ Guilt flooded through the King, hot and blinding. He had never intended to push Faramir into this despair.

__‘_ No, this is a practiced hurt,’_ he argued back, reason stepping in to counter raw emotion, _‘these scars were not all formed in one day.’_

_‘What manner of man commits such acts upon himself? If he can do this to himself, what else is he capable of? Can he be trusted with the weight of the Stewardship, the people of Gondor, the life of the King?’_ The voice retorted scratchily.

_'This is an illness of the mind, not a corruption of his soul. Like any other sickness, it can be purged,’_  Aragorn thought firmly, _‘and I must help him cure this disease. He is still Faramir, and I do not judge him for this madness. He will always be my steward, my prince, my friend, and. . . my beloved.’_

“Beg pardon, my Lords, my Lady.” the older guard stood at the door hesitantly, quite conscious that he was interrupting as his eyes flickered nervously between the King’s tears and the Steward’s unchanged face. “I brought what you asked from the House of Healing.”

Arwen stood to tend to the guard’s delivery, giving her husband’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she left him with his charge. His eyes did not waver from Faramir’s face.

“What’s this?” Arwen asked, surprised as she pulled out a small earthen jar from the basket of supplies. She uncorked the bottle, and the scent the came from it was green, sweet, and familiar. She reached in and pulled out a single green leaf, still fresh and tender.

“I brought some of the Kingsfoil the healers picked from the garden this afternoon.” The guard looked a little sheepish. “Seems they like to keep it on hand since the end of the war. We all remember how well it worked back then.” His eyes flickered nervously to the King and then back to the ground. “I thought maybe it would help now.”

It was only then that the King looked up to the guard. Although Elessar’s cheeks were still damp, it did not dim the noble light that shone from his eyes as he looked at the man with newly born respect.

“What is you name, sir?” Elessar asked.

“Martyn, sire,” he replied as he bowed low.

“Good Martyn, your quick thought will not be forgotten by your King and Queen, nor by the Lord Steward. Go in peace, good soldier, and know that you may have saved a man’s soul on this black night.”

Looking deeply moved, Martyn bowed again before making his way to the door, casting another long, worried look at Faramir before leaving.

“Will the athelas truly cure him?” Arwen asked as she brought the basket of medical supplies to the bedside.

The King’s face fell again, and once more he was simply Aragorn, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose in exhaustion. This had been one of the longest days of his life.

“No, it cannot cure him this time,” he finally sighed. “It is not an outer darkness that threatens him, no curse nor poison. He battles an enemy of his own mind, and simple herbs, no matter how gifted, will not mend the old wounds he keeps ripping open. Only he can heal himself.”

“Then what did you mean when you told that guard he had saved Faramir?” Arwen was puzzled, though she did not stop moving as she went to the copper kettle by the hearth and filled it with water from the pitcher Martyn had brought.

“There is the other method of using athelas,” Aragorn said carefully, his brow furrowing. “I have not done it for many years, but I believe it may be my only hope.”

“You’re going to burn the leaf, aren’t you?” Arwen breathed, deducing Aragorn’s intention. “Estel, it is too great a risk! Inhaling the smoke of the athelas forces open the gate to the mind.” She too, had learned her herbcraft in Rivendell, but had had centuries to master it where Aragorn had only decades. “His mind is already too fragile. If you attempt to enter it, you may break him completely.”

“He is already broken,” Aragorn said softly. He stood, and went to Faramir’s pile of ranging gear. It only took him a moment to find what he was looking for: a small wooden pipe. In the same wrapping were a few small twigs, which Faramir used to light his pipe.

“I’ve already been in Faramir’s mind,” he continued, returning to his seat beside his prince. He reached into the little jar and plucked out a few leaves, pushing them down into the bowl of the pipe. “Briefly, and only on the surface. Even there, I saw such pain, such sorrow…”

Aragorn trailed off. He looked up to watch his wife as she readied the medical supplies. Despite her trepidation, she seemed so calm, even with the blood staining her face and gown. Aragorn could still see from within her a lingering trace of the Light that she had so freely given up. Indeed, maybe it had never left her, but merely lay asleep within, only to be seen and never touched again. She looked up, her eyes locking with Aragorn’s, bright as cobalt.

“I must go find him,” Elessar finally said softly, “he has pulled away from us so far that he cannot find the way back.”

“I trust you, Estel,” Arwen said. “I will tend to his outer wounds. You tend to the inner ones.”

“This may take time,” he said, turning back to Faramir and taking his cold hand in his, “for it will not be a simple task.”

“Then, go, my love,” Arwen said gently, “and bring our Faramir back to us.”

The King did not think of the meaning of his wife’s words, so intent was he on his purpose. He lit one of the dry twigs by the light of a nearby candle, and set the small flame to his pipe. He inhaled deeply, the smoke tangy and green on his tongue, a familiar taste he’d never expected to savor again. He’d take athelas journeys a few times, but only in introspection. This was the first time he was attempting a joined journey, and the stakes were far too high for him to misstep.

He leaned forward over Faramir, and placing his lips lightly over the Steward’s, he breathed the smoke out slowly. It seeped through Faramir’s slightly parted lips and up his nostrils. Aragorn repeated the process twice more, until he felt the tendrils of new awareness curling around his consciousness like a soft, warm fog.

Letting the lids of his eyes close into half-slits and his breath become slow and rhythmic, he _reached_ out with himself towards Faramir, letting the room slip away from him.

**********

Arwen watched silently as her husband slid into a meditative trance, almost able to see the moment when his consciousness slipped from this plane of being to the next.

Only when he was gone did she finally let out the sob she’d been holding back, the weight of the situation finally crushing into her full force. It had been long since she seen a sight so heartbreaking as the look in Faramir’s eyes, and to watch him splinter before her like the glass under his knees was an experience she hoped to never relive again.

The kettle began to steam behind her, and Arwen composed herself with a sniff of her nose and a backhanded wipe of her eyes. Faramir was not lost to them. He was too good a man, too strong a man, to let himself be conquered by fear and ghosts.

Now it was up to Aragorn to remind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also contains new content.


	9. Stone and Carnage

The path was easy to find, for this was the second time in his life Aragorn had deliberately followed it into the tempest of Faramir’s soul. The first, when Faramir had lain inches from the abyss of death, Aragorn had tracked the prince through the whorls and eddies that had constructed his fevered dreamscape. That had been the first time they had ever met, there in the labyrinth of Faramir’s mind, and it had been the Steward’s joy at recognizing the true King, the figure of his prophetic visions, that had enabled Faramir to pull himself from the talons of the poisonous demons that had held him captive.

But this was much different. It was not a venom-barbed arrow that had caused this retreat, no weapon of a dark lord. This was far more insidious, and infinitely more perilous. Faramir was fighting against himself, and by the looks of the landscape that revealed itself to Aragorn, the battle did not go in his favor.

As Aragorn slipped into the realm between flesh and spirit, the hazy mist of consciousness parted slowly, like a dusty stage curtain being pulled back, exposing a gruesome, yet familiar sight. The currents of Faramir’s being had formed themselves into an abandoned warfield, corpses clad in leather and chain and steel littering the ground as far as the eye could see. Which was not very far, as a cold, gray fog had settled over the field, the only funeral shroud large enough to cover hundreds of fallen armies.

The old warrior’s hand instinctively moved towards his sword--which was now such a part of him that he could bring it with him into this dreamscape--as he watched the bodies for sign of threatening movement, slowly making his way through the carrion field. His boots sank into the blood-soaked earth underfoot, as he carefully stepped over and around the dead warriors, trying to see through the wet fog for a sign of life.

“Faramir! Where are you?” Aragorn’s cry was swallowed by the mists almost as soon as it had left his dry lips. How would he find Faramir in such conditions? The soil was churned so that tracking the footsteps of one man would be nigh impossible, even for a ranger of Aragorn’s rank. The pervasive haze clouded all but a few feet in every direction, and the only thing the king could do was stumble onwards, hoping for a sign to lead him to his quarry.

He watched the bodies carefully as he passed, more now for clues than for threats. Despite the long abandoned look of the battlefield, the corpses seemed fresh, the blood still crimson as it tricked from gaping wounds that would never heal. He realized, also, that the races of the fallen were mixed: here a swarthy man of Harad lay beside an gold-clad Easterling, there a group of broken Orcs were scattered around a large stone, obviously the victims of a catapult’s siege. There were Gondorians beyond count amid the bodies of their foes: the army, in their once-shining armor now dented and caked with gore and mud, the rangers, almost indistinguishable from the ground in their dark leathers, riddled with black-feathered arrows.

He understood what he saw, though it made his heart ache with pity for what it meant for Faramir. Aragorn did not forget that the entirety of the Steward’s life had been defined by war and battle. From the moment he had learned to walk he had been trained to be a warrior. Faramir had never been given a choice in the matter. Born a man of Gondor, he was expected to guard his country with steel and blood in those troubled times, and as the son of the Steward he had been groomed from youth to be a captain of men.

Aragorn knew that in his prime, there had been no finer bowman in all of Gondor than Faramir, and the only thing more deadly about the captain of the Ithilien rangers was his sharp mind, his talent for strategy. The king recalled one night not too long after the end of the war when he had persuaded Faramir to show him the plans he had drawn up for the defenses of Osgiliath when the city had been in his charge. The design was flawless, and the city would have been held easily, had Denethor not impulsively relocated almost half of the captain’s troops back to the already-defended outpost of Pelargir.

But despite his natural talents and years of training, Faramir had never had any great love of war. Unlike Boromir, who had lived for the clash of arms and the taste of enemy blood, Faramir at heart had always been a scholar. Indeed, his deepest regret was never having had the opportunity to study at the great university in Minas Tirith, for as soon as he had come of age his classroom had been the battle field, and his professors had been his generals.

Judging from the damage around him, it seemed Faramir had never been able to pull himself out of those days, unravel his identity from that of the ceaseless fighter. The war was over now, and though there was still a call to arms now and again, Gondor was in a state peace unseen in long ages. True, war had robbed Faramir of his youth and innocence. But it need not rob him of his future as well.

Almost as if in response to Aragorn’s thoughts, a flicker of movement finally appeared through the mists, a form approaching slowly in the distance.

“Faramir?” the king called, gripping Anduril’s hilt as he squinted against the gloom.

He was greeted in kind by silence, but the figure did not slow or turn back. He had not truly expected an answer, for his first call had also gone unheeded, and he could tell his visitor was still a long way off, judging by the small size of the human form.

Much to his surprise, the figure became clear to him with only a few more steps, and to Aragorn’s wonder it was a child, no older than five, who met him on that blood-stained field. He knew at once who it was, for though he had never known Faramir as a boy, he recognized the piercing intensity of the prince’s eyes. Despite Faramir’s apparent age he still carried himself in the manner of grown man, and the boy regarded the King somberly, his round face peering from underneath a mop of curls so babyishly blond they was almost white. His skin was so pale against the black velvet tunic he wore, he would have appeared an apparition devoid of color, if his pale blue eyes had not stood out so brightly, meeting Aragorn’s without flinching.

The king went down on one knee, feeling it was important he look Faramir in the eye when addressing him. Why had the prince chosen this form to appear to Aragorn in?

“Hello Faramir,” Aragorn said gently. He tried not to sound condescending, as many adults do when addressing children. He could not forget that this boy before him was a warrior and a prince, fully entitled to the respect that the King would have shown him had he appeared in his true state.

“Hello, Elessar,” Faramir said, and though his voice was sweet and youthful, his tone was grave, “I am to lead you to Him.”

Aragorn could tell by the way the boy had said “Him,” that it was a title in and of itself, the only identifying marker of something that truly did not have name.

“I would like to speak with Him,” Aragorn replied, “but first you must tell me if you are alright, Faramir.”

The child looked blankly at Aragorn.

“I am to lead you to Him.” He repeated, and extended his small hand to the King in emphasis.

A knot twisted in Aragorn’s stomach. Was this Faramir nothing more than an empty puppet, a messenger sent to fetch him? Had Faramir been fractured into so many pieces that each could only represent a fragment of his true being?

There was only one way to find out.

Sighing a little in his frustration, the king stood, and took the child Faramir’s hand. He was struck at once by how the skin felt, for though the fingers were small and chubby, they were still calloused and rough, just as they had been when Aragorn had taken Faramir’s hand in his at the campfire last night. It unnerved him greatly, though he kept his resolve. He must let the prince guide him to where he was most needed.

Faramir led him in silence through the field, and the way seemed clearer now that Aragorn had a guide. The mists had thinned a bit, allowing his eyes a longer view at the landscape in which they traveled. The battlefield seemed to stretch ever onward, and the further they walked the higher the body count rose. But Faramir made his way easily, scampering over severed limbs and pools of clotted gore as smoothly as any child would over fallen logs and mud puddles.

Finally, the horizon loomed through the fog, taking the shape of a large foothill, a half-mountain covered in a thick layer of bright green moss, the first sign of natural life Aragorn had seen in this barren place. When they were a bit closer, Aragorn noticed the large iron door embedded in the lichen-covered stone, long rusted from gray to brown.

This was the source, then. The core of Faramir’s being. Aragorn swallowed his nervousness as he drew nearer. Indeed, he had been inside Faramir’s soul before, but on both occurrences he had flitted on the edges, luring Faramir out slowly like a crab from its shell. Never had he been invited to delve straight into the heart darkness like this before, and he did not know what to expect on the other side of that battered gate.

The door seemed almost as thick as it was high, and Aragorn felt dwarfed next to its cold strength. His hand instinctively reached for the large ring that served as a handle, but he stopped himself before his fingertips had even brushed the rusted metal.

“After you.” Aragorn stepped aside, gesturing to Faramir with a little nod of his head. This was the prince’s domain, after all, and though he had been invited, it seemed suddenly unspeakably rude to wrench open the door to Faramir’s soul while he stood by and watched.

The boy arched his eyebrows as if pleased. It was the first characteristic of the Steward Aragorn had seen this child-manifestation demonstrate, and it brought a little hope him.

Faramir grabbed the handle, standing on his toes to reach, and pulled the door open as effortlessly as if it had been made of hollow wood. It seemed that only darkness awaited on the other side, but a warm wind seemed to breeze from the depths, smelling faintly of sandalwood. Aragorn was intrigued, for he had not expected such a sweet odor to emit from such a black place, and the dichotomy further increased his unrest.

But before they could step into the beyond, Faramir placed his little hand on Aragorn’s right arm.

“Your sword.” the boy extended his arms, almost as if he were asking for an embrace. But with his palms faced upwards, Aragorn understood his meaning.

“Why can I not carry my own sword?” the king asked, a hint of challenge in his voice, “I will not use it to cause harm.”

“I am the only one who may carry arms in this place,” Faramir replied, his voice cold despite its childish timbre, “it is the rules.”

Aragorn was tempted to argue, for he was loathe to go into the unknown so unarmed. Anduril was an extension of himself, just as much a part of him as his hands or his eyes. But if he was to help Faramir, he must respect his terms. How could he expect the prince to trust him if he himself did not trust Faramir?

With more than a little reluctance, Aragorn unbuckled his sword from his waist, and wrapping the loose ends of leather around the scabbard, he handed Anduril to the child. Carefully, and with great reverence, Faramir took the sword with both hands, cradling it as if it were a living being. It would have looked almost comical had the situation not been so strange, this child carrying a blade that was almost twice his height, but Faramir’s pale face looked so serious Aragorn did not dare even crack a smile.

With Anduril firmly in his grip, Faramir nodded once more at Aragorn in a beaconing manner before turning and walking into the darkness. The king hesitated only a moment, readying himself for what lay beyond, before following the boy Faramir into the perfumed darkness, his heart thundering in his chest.

It took a minute for Aragorn’s ranger-trained eyes to adjust to the dimness, and only when the already scant light from the misty battlefield had been shut out by the closing of the door behind them, could he fully gather where they were.

A long corridor stretched before the man and boy, lined with great marble columns that met in graceful arches against the high ceiling. From each arch hung a large chandelier, dozens of candles flickering amid the black metal spirals, throwing dancing shadows against the polished walls. Small brass braziers hung from arches between the pillars, emitting soft wisps of scented smoke, just enough to sweeten the air without making it cloying in the stillness.

But it was not the grand architecture of the chamber itself that drew Aragorn’s attention. It was what the chamber held, and the sight chilled Elessar to his core.

Countless tombs lined the hall, each resting between a pair of pillars, carved of the same pale marble. It gave the impression that the entire room had been cut from a single, massive stone. Though designed in the same style, each coffin was slightly different; some were older than others, some longer, some larger. Each bore a name, or the impression of name too old to decipher any longer.

As Aragorn walked slowly past their silent ranks, taking in the white against white, they suddenly gave the impression in his mind of Faramir’s scars, the unnumbered rows of pale wounds lining the prince’s forearms. The comparison made his heart clench. The cuts went so deep they were visible here at Faramir’s core. . .or was it the other way around?

The boy led him wordlessly through the long corridor, as unfazed by the absolute silence of the crypt as he had been by the carnage of the battlefield. They walked for so long, past so many tombs, the king began to wonder if there was an end to this room, or if this was some sort of endless loop Faramir had lured him into in hopes of distracting him.

Finally there was a change in the room as the hall widened and the distance between the tombs grew. Here the coffins were different, each displaying grander designs than the ones in the long hall behind them. Upon one there were detailed etching of Rohirrim cavalry carved into every inch of its polished surface, another had been made in the semblance of a cocoon of woven vines. Many names were familiar to Aragorn, either from his own experiences or from Faramir’s stories, and it struck him to see the painstaking detail that had been taken, the personality of each occupant reflected in the style of their grave. These were people that had mattered dearly to Faramir, whose loss was felt most keenly by the prince.

The boy-Faramir escorted Aragorn past these without slowing, giving Aragorn little opportunity to search the names properly. There was one, at least, he knew he should find here. . .

He was so intent on his search that he did not notice when they had reached the end of the great crypt, passing through a final archway and into large, circular chamber.

If Aragorn had been impressed by the design of the tombs in the hall behind him, he was awestruck now by the majestic memorials that lay in this final room. Five large sarcophagi rested here, carved in the intricate style of the Gondorian kings of old. Such was their splendor that they could only ever truly exist in the heart of a man, for no stone could ever pay tribute such as Faramir’s sorrow had constructed for the ones he had loved deeply.

Aragorn did not need to look at the names upon the tombs to know who lay here at the core of Faramir’s grief: one tomb for a mother long lost, one for a father poisoned by his own madness, one for a brother fallen far from home, and one for a wife with a heart to wild to hold. But the fifth? He looked closer, and realized that it was still only half-built, surrounded by blocks of uncut stone laying in neat piles. No lid was fashioned for the high walls, no scrollwork carved into the flawless marble. Only a name, and when Aragorn read it, it sent a dagger of ice through his heart.

_Elessar._

“Hello, your Majesty,” a cool voice said behind him, and the king turned quickly to find Faramir, a grown man now, seated in a low throne in the center of the room. Across his lap lay Anduril, still in its fine scabbard, his hands resting across it almost possessively, though they did not grip the hilt. He was dressed as the boy had been, in fine black velvet, and Aragorn realized when he could no longer see the child that a transformation had taken place when his back had been turned. The rules of this place were changing, then.

“Hello, my friend,” Aragorn said softly, “I have come to help you.”

“Then I regret to inform you that you have wasted your time,” Faramir replied, his frigid voice raking over Aragorn, “for I do not need your help.”

The king knew at once which Faramir he was speaking to, for this man was so cold and distant he could have been a statue carved from the same ubiquitous white marble that defined the hall.

“I want to speak with my Faramir,” Aragorn said, taking a step closer to the carven chair.

“Your Faramir?” the figure on the throne sneered, “Faramir is no one’s. Not even his own.”

It was odd to listen to Faramir speak of himself in as if he were someone else, and it unnerved the King greatly.

“Then I will speak with you, demon,” Aragorn’s voice became harsh, “and I will ask you to leave Faramir in peace, to stop hurting him as you do. He has suffered enough, and I will not allow you to further torment him!”

Faramir laughed, and the sound was like a blizzard wind across Aragorn’s soul.

“So you came here to save him? To slay the dragon holding your prince captive? You still don’t understand, do you Elessar? I am Faramir! I am Faramir’s strength! I am the one who protects him, who pushes him, who gives him the will to survive. You say I hurt him, but if it were not for my actions he would have crumbled long ago under the horrors that have built up the path of his life!”

“But this is not all of you, Faramir!” Aragorn argued, deliberately addressing the prince directly now, “If I know you, then this place also holds a library grander than any known in all the lands of men. Where are the forests? For what ranger does not feel the trees and the growing things to the core of him? I know there is more to you than stone and carnage!”

Faramir let out a low, bitter chuckle at Elessar’s impassioned speech.

“What are forests and libraries but pretty tinder for the unstoppable fires of time? In the end, everything falls to ashes,” Faramir leaned forward in his intensity, his eyes sparking a deep and dangerous blue, “everything burns, everything dies. I am tired of planting trees just to see them burn just as they grow to saplings, so tired of opening myself just to be met with abuse and abandonment.”

“No, it is best to remain closed,” Faramir concluded, leaning back in his seat, sagging a bit as if to demonstrate his exhaustion, “it is best you left me in peace.”

“What peace is this, Faramir, if it drives you to hurt yourself so?” Aragorn insisted, before dropping his voice into a near-whisper, “I have seen your scars, my friend, and they do not speak of a mind at rest.”

The Steward regarded Aragorn with iron in his eyes as his jaw clenched; the King’s words hanging in the air between them as heavily as the sandalwood smoke.

“It is the only peace I have, Elessar,” Faramir’s voice trembled with barely restrained rage, “and it would do you well not to judge me for my methods of survival. You have no idea what I have been through.”

“I understand better than you think, Faramir,” Aragorn said softly. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he was slowly reaching Faramir, he could see it by the shine of Faramir’s eyes.

“You understand nothing,” the steward spat.

“Don’t I?” Aragorn said quietly, “I know the losses you have suffered. I know the abuse you survived. I also know the true strength in you, the great knowledge and beauty. There is so much more to you than loss and sorrow. That is why I love you, Faramir.”

Aragorn’s words seemed to wound Faramir physically, and he flinched mightily. But no, it was more than a flinch. For a second, the king was able to see a flicker of the Faramir he sought through the stern veneer, but it was as evanescent as his child-form in the mists of the battlefield, and as soon as Aragorn realized what he had seen it was gone.

“That word again,” Faramir said, the temperature of his voice dropping, “you really have no idea how I loathe it. You claim to love me,” Faramir’s tone turned the word into a curse, “but I know better. You are trying to use it manipulate me. For how could you love me after only a day? It is only your lust that has been enflamed, and you use the oldest bait known to lure me into your bed.”

“I would not use such a potent word for lustful treachery,” Aragorn’s eyes flashed in challenge, “for I have been trapped by it before, and know there is no greater deception. I would not do that to you Faramir. Even if you never came to my bed, even if our lips never touched again, even if you never wanted to shake my hand, I would still love you.” The king’s heart pounded as he spoke. His honesty was almost painful, for the revelation of his feelings was still fresh to him, and it was a trial beyond reckoning to open his heart so in the face of such malice.

“It has only been one day since I’ve let my feelings be known,” Aragorn pressed on, “but I have loved you from the day I met you, though I did not have the courage to admit it to myself. When you left Minas Tirith for Ithilien, I thought my heart would break for not having you near me each day. So I sent for you Faramir, not knowing why, feeling only that I needed to see you again. I would have been content to love you in silence for the rest of my life, but it was your valiant honesty last night Faramir, that gave me the strength to finally show you.”

Faramir would have been completely still had it not been for the slight tremble of his hand as it gripped Anduril’s scabbard. His face was unreadable, but his eyes, yes his eyes, were shining, like a thin layer of water over melting ice.

“There is much that still awaits you Faramir. You are still young, and your heart is strong. Let me help you heal your wounds. Let me help you tear down this crypt and plant a garden in it’s stead. Let me love you, Faramir.”

“Stop saying that!” Faramir hissed, though there was a measure of uncertainty in his voice, “love is nothing but another weapon that can be turned against you just when you are at your weakest. Love will always fail, be it by malicious intent or the will of the Valar. I was not meant to be loved, Elessar. I was meant to stand alone. For if not, then why has everyone been taken from me so?”

“Not everyone,” Aragorn said softly, “Beregond, your captain, who would have traded his life for yours, still lives and honors you; Imrahil, your uncle, asks after you every time he comes from Dol Amroth to give me council; Éomer Éadig, the king of Rohan, calls you brother and cares for you as such despite the choices of his sister; Arwen, the queen of Gondor, who at this very moment stays by your side to pull shards of glass from your flesh and bandage your wounds. I am not the only one who loves you Faramir. But I am the one who offers you my heart.”

Oh, he was so close! Faramir had the tremulous air of a building on the verge of collapse, and was no longer able to look the King in the eye. Instead, he stared at the sword in his lap, his knuckles white as they gripped the smooth brown leather.

“But I cannot accept it.” Faramir’s voice was low, and Aragorn detected for the first time a hint of regret in his words, “I would rather live in the certainty of solitude rather risk the pain again. For if I were to lose your love, were I to indeed accept it, then it would destroy me.”

“You will not lose me, Faramir!” Aragorn insisted, his passion running hot, trying to press his advantage, “I cannot speak for what the future will hold, but I swear to you now, I will be yours until the day I die.”

“Those are only hasty words!” Faramir’s own heated emotions flared in response to Aragorn’s, “Words mean nothing! You speak the vows my wife promised on our wedding day, and you see how well she kept them.” Faramir had turned to stone once again, and Aragorn cursed himself for his misstep. He feared, looking at the bitterness freezing Faramir’s eyes again, that he had just lost the battle.

“No, my Liege, I will not accept your love. But do not worry, Elessar, your memorial is well underway, and you will always hold a place of honor in here.” Faramir’s voice was cold and dismissive, and he waved his hand casually at the half-constructed tomb behind Aragorn. “Now please, go, before you cause me any more grief.”

The king was at a loss for words. He had not expected the argument to turn back around so sharply against him, and he could think of no recourse.

“Elessar, I will only ask you politely once more,” Faramir said, his gentle tone making his words all the more threatening, “leave me alone.”

Aragorn’s frustration finally boiled up to the surface, and he met Faramir’s icy gaze with a look of fire.

“No.” he said simply, but the strength of his words obviously shocked Faramir.

“Leave!” Faramir’s voice rose angrily.

“No.” Aragorn turned around, and walked to his tomb. Barely conscious of what he was doing, he picked up a large block of polished stone, and placed it in the space waiting for it in the structure, without another word or look at Faramir.

“What are you doing?” Faramir was shocked and enraged, “do not touch that!”

“Why not!” Aragorn shouted back, still not looking at Faramir, “it’s mine, after all. Seems only fitting I should build my own tomb, as this is where I am going to stay.”

“You are leaving,” Faramir growled, stepping from his seat for the first time since Aragorn had entered.

“No, I’m not,” Aragorn retorted, and they sounded like two beasts challenging each other for a prize mate, “I would rather stay here in the crypt with you than return to the land beyond without you. I’m not going anywhere unless you come with me.”

Aragorn surprised himself with his reckless gambit, but it was born of desperation. This was his last chance to save Faramir.

The ring of steel echoing off the stone walls stopped Aragorn short. He turned back to Faramir, who had drawn Anduril and held it aloft, the glittering tip pointed at the King. Aragorn had never seen Faramir so furious, and a thrill of real fear shot through him for the first time. He had no idea what the prince was capable of in this state.

“I give you a final warning,” Faramir’s voice was deadly soft as he closed the distance between them, “Leave, or--”

“Or you will run your King through with his own sword, my Steward?” Aragorn repressed any sign of dread, not flinching as the sharp tip of his sword came to rest upon his tightening throat, “if you would truly rather kill me than love me, then please do.”

Faramir’s eyes fluttered wide in disbelief. This had not been the reaction he’d be expecting.

“All of these graves here are empty, Faramir. All their spirits have passed from this world. You have constructed yourself a crypt of memory, nothing more. But, I would remain here as a ghost for you. I would rest in this tomb for you, so you would know at least one of these graves laid filled. Be it with my eyes open or my heart run through with steel, I will not leave you alone in this prison, Faramir.”

Aragorn felt the blade press harder against his jugular vein, and he prepared himself, closing his eyes and letting his face fall into a mask of serenity. He did not know what would happen to him when Faramir sank the blade in, whether he would simply return to the land above, or if he would indeed die. He would know soon enough.

The sword fell to the ground with a loud clang, a bell ringing to hail Aragorn’s victory. The king opened his eyes, and there before him again stood the boy, shaking as he struggled not to cry, hugging himself tightly as if trying to hold himself together.

“My Faramir,” Aragorn breathed as he went down on his knees and pulled the child tightly into his arms, feeling the boy Faramir quaver against him, “do not hold back your tears. Let them cleanse you, let them make you whole again.”

The room was still for a moment, as if the very stones held their breath. And then a wail split the silence, as keen as a wind howling through jagged mountains. It was muffled as Faramir buried his face into Aragorn’s shoulder, and huge sobs wracked his tiny body so powerfully all the king could do was hold him, stroking the soft curls, murmuring words of encouragement.

In all his life, Faramir had never allowed himself to cry such as he was now. He had been taught early that tears were a weakness, a sign of fragility that brought nothing but scorn and ridicule. So he had learned to repress his grief, channeling it into action, and only when the pain had become too great had he allowed himself his cruel relief. . .

Aragorn closed his eyes, letting all his love and grace flow into Faramir, relishing his own tears as they fell unnoticed onto Faramir’s velvet-clad back.

He could feel the shift, the change in Faramir, though he dared not open his eyes to watch. Though the form he held was still small, it was different, less frail, and clung to him with greater strength and assurance.

Then Aragorn felt the pull, the familiar slipping, consciousness fluttering back to him, and he knew they had returned to the realm of flesh when the sobs he heard were no longer in the voice of a child.

He must have knelt beside the bed in his state, for he embraced Faramir as he lay wounded, the prince’s tears still coming hot and wild against Aragorn’s neck. Strong arms gripped the King tightly, Faramir still shivering and clinging to the king as if he had just pulled him from drowning in a deep, cold pool.

They stayed like that for a long time, locked together in love and relief, Faramir’s sobs the only sound filling the quiet room. Aragorn did not stop him, even now that they had returned, for he knew that the prince was healing himself in ways he could not help with anymore. Aragorn had done enough; he had given Faramir the strength he needed to mend himself.

It seemed long hours before the prince finally quieted, slowly going limp in Aragorn’s arms as his weariness took over. It was only then that the King opened his eyes as he gently released Faramir, letting the tired form sag back upon the bed.

They were alone in the room, for Arwen was nowhere to be seen. But the dawn greeted them instead, pale pink light filtering in through the window to bathe Faramir’s cleaned and bandaged face. Aragorn stroked Faramir’s wet cheek, and the Steward opened his eyes at the caress. The King could not repress a smile when Faramir’s eyes met his, and he swallowed the lump in his throat lest he start the prince’s tears anew.

Faramir’s eyes were clear and bright, a new light shining from the depths as pure as the glow of mithril ore cutting through the darkness of a mine. He seemed reborn, and the look brought to Aragorn’s mind the thought of the forest after it has been washed clean by a tremendous storm, all the living things as green and vibrant as they ever could be.

A great fatigue washed through Aragorn then, and he tried to stand to reach his chair. But his legs were stiff, and refused to budge. Faramir, seeing his struggle, wordlessly pulled Aragorn into the bed beside him, using the last of his own strength. His own exhaustion was hard upon him, and all he wanted was to fall into sleep with his guide and healer beside him.

So, without a word, the two men curled about each other, Aragorn cautiously avoiding the prince’s neatly bandaged knees, and fell into a deep sleep that could only have been interrupted by the ending of the world itself. For each had found a deep and lasting peace that wrapped about them both like a soft cloak, bound together by a love that words could not do justice.


	10. Tending

More than a full day passed before king and steward awoke again, the strain of their excursion into the wild mingling with the sheer emotional drain each had endured in their confrontation. But when they did open their eyes, they felt refreshed as they never had before, and the late summer morning held a promise so rich neither dared speak for a long time after the sun had roused them into wakefulness.

So they stayed nestled in the warm sheets, savoring the feeling of having each other so close, and both were loathe to leave the intimate nest they had woven about them. But then Faramir’s knee bumped against Aragorn’s boot-clad shin, and the yelp of pain brought them back into the reality of their situation. 

Immediately, Aragorn slipped into the role of the healer, and reluctantly dislodged himself from Faramir’s arms to inspect the wounds. He carefully unwrapped the seeping bandages to reveal the raw tissue, and marveled at Arwen’s skilled work. She had spent hours painstakingly removing every last sliver of glass from the skin, and cleaned the cuts so thoroughly they had not infected at all. But despite her great care, the injury was still severe, and it would be at least a week before the Steward would be able to walk again without re-tearing the mending flesh.

“I am afraid you will have to remain in bed for a few days,” Aragorn broke the news to Faramir, his face grim.

Faramir sighed, letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

“How am I supposed to finish my work if I cannot get to the library?” he asked crossly, more to himself than the King, “I suppose I could assign a page to serve as a courier, to fetch me my materials--”

“You are taking a break,” Aragorn voice was gently commanding, though it held a note of exasperation, “I forbid you to even entertain the notion of work while you are under my charge.”

Faramir’s protests died on his lips when he saw the determination on Elessar’s face, and he frowned in answer, though the fullness of his lips made it appear more like a childish pout.

“You can use all the time you want to finish your report when you have taken some time to heal yourself,” Aragorn’s voice was casual, though Faramir did not miss the undertone of gravity in his words. The king was speaking of more than his flesh wounds.

“It will take more than a few days, Aragorn,” Faramir said softly, suddenly unsure of himself. It was odd for him to speak openly of something he had so long held secret, and even more disquieting to know someone else shared it with him.

“I know, my friend,” the king replied, and he reached out for Faramir’s drawn face, gently cupping his bearded chin in his palm to pull Faramir’s eyes up to his, “and I am willing to help you with this for as long as it takes.”

“But what it if takes the rest of my life?” Faramir asked hesitantly, his eyes flickering nervously away from Aragorn’s intensely loving gaze. 

“I expect it will. But it will not be so bad the longer we work on it.” Aragorn replied, his quiet confidence renewing Faramir’s freshly found strength.

With a tender squeeze, Aragorn release the steward’s face to finish bandaging his knees in the clean strips of white cloth Arwen had left for them. Aragorn moved on to Faramir’s forehead, and was relieved to find the wounds there not quite as severe as the ones on his knees. He knew that even the smallest facial wounds bleed mightily, and only a dozen or so small red marks dotted Faramir’s face. He would be free of that bandage within a day or so.

“There,” Aragorn said as he tied the fabric around Faramir’s freshly-tended forehead, “that should take care of all the wounds.”

“No,” Faramir said, his voice quiet, but sure.

Slowly, not daring meet Aragorn in the eye, he pulled up the sleeves of his long shirt and presented the two cuts he had carved into his arms at the campfire. Though the scars were thick and healing, the skin had become an angry red for negligence through the night. “These need to be bandaged again.”

Aragorn could scarcely breathe, his heart was so filled with awe for the great trust Faramir had just placed in him. The King knew at that moment the true depth of Faramir’s love for him. An action such as this was a testament beyond words. 

With trembling hands, Aragorn gently smoothed a little ointment on the long cuts, and did not miss the tears that welled in Faramir’s eyes as he touched them. 

“Those were yours,” Faramir said, his confession barely loud enough to be heard.

The King’s heart clenched at the knowledge, his guilt rising to form a knot in his throat. Had he been more vigilant, had he known of Faramir’s affliction earlier, he might have been able to help him sooner. But, he knew now. That was what truly mattered. 

“And they will be my last,” Faramir’s voice was suddenly filled with a quiet conviction, and he met his friend’s eyes with a fragile clarity that Aragorn had never seen before. This was going to be so hard for Faramir, but he was strong. He had survived so much before, Aragorn did not doubt the prince would pull through this.

“I want you to have something,” Faramir said carefully after Aragorn had tied the last knot on the bandage, his eyes roving the room for what he sought, “can you bring that to me?”

He gestured to the black velvet bundle upon the dresser, and with a slightly puzzled look Aragorn rose and fetched it. By the time he had returned to Faramir’s side he had guessed what lay wrapped in it, but he held his tongue and waited for the prince to slowly unfurl the old cloth.

The silver knife winked in the morning light, its razor-sharp blade both a threat and an invitation to the steward, as he let his eyes drink in it’s cold beauty one last time. This blade had served him long, and it had done it’s job with an unmatched efficiency. But now he no longer needed it, and though he felt it in his heart of hearts, he knew the temptation would always be with him as long as the blade served as a reminder of his true weakness. 

“Keep this for me, Aragorn,” Faramir said, and reverently handed him the instrument of his long denial, “keep it until I can look upon it without wanting to. . .” his lips still could not form the dreadful truth. The admission was still too fresh to speak in the light of day.

“I will care for it for you, Faramir,” Aragorn rescued the prince by taking the knife, wrapping it tightly in its cloth, “until you know what you wish to do with it.” 

Faramir nodded, his throat suddenly tight. Saying goodbye to his old friend was the hardest thing he had ever done. 

But then his sadness was chased away by Aragorn’s soft lips upon his, a kiss so gentle it was almost a whisper, and Faramir was reminded for the first time of not what he was leaving behind. . .but what lay before him.

Hope.


	11. Epilogue: Convergence

Faramir did not wake alone for the third time that week. He did not need to reach his hand out to feel Aragorn’s sleeping form beside him still, the sheets surrounding his strong body still warm as sunlight. 

The morning light had just begun to tint the sky above the White City, and Faramir wondered what had woken him in this lavender predawn. Dismissing it as him getting used to the sleeping rhythms of his new bedmate, he nestled closer to Aragorn as he closed his eyes, spooning him carefully so as not to bump his healing knees against the backs of the King’s thighs. 

Faramir’s eyelids shot open again as he heard the door to his bed-chamber slowly open, and he held his breath as his beloved’s wife, the Queen of Gondor, whispered into the room. So intent was she on closing the door silently behind her that she did not notice Faramir watching her raptly from the bed, nor her husband’s subtle shift as he pressed himself closer to his prince in his sleep. 

Arwen stopped at the doorway, smiling as she watched the two men entwined languidly on the bed. They looked so peaceful, so content, she was loathe to wake them, but she bore such powerful news she knew it could not wait until they woke. The way they’d been sleeping lately, she might not get her chance until well into the afternoon.

She knew Faramir was awake before she had made her way across the room to the bed; she could tell by the way he pulled away a bit from Aragorn as she approached. He was still so uncertain of her approval, for it was such a foreign idea to him that a man could have two loves without deceit or jealousy. It would take time. Time she was willing to give.

She stopped when she reached the bed, and to Faramir’s bewilderment she silently gestured to him if she could join them. Unsure of her motives, but not wanting to seem rude, he nodded slowly, catching on to her desire not to wake Aragorn quite yet. 

But rather than pull herself under the covers, she laid down across the summer coverlet beside her husband. She leaned forward and kissed his lips softly, a waking kiss, and Faramir was pleased to realize he still felt no pang of envy. Perhaps he could indeed get used to this. 

“Estel,” she whispered in elvish, stroking Aragorn’s stubbly cheek, “wake up, my love.”

The king’s eyelids fluttered open, and he regarded his wife with a look of groggy surprise. He had expected to wake to Faramir’s gentle kiss, and though he was always happy to see his beloved, it puzzled him to find her here in the Steward’s bed with them.

“Hello, Arwen,” Aragorn said in the western tongue as he smiled sleepily, “did you miss me so much that you decided to join us?”

Faramir blushed a little to hear Aragorn referrer to them as us, especially to his own wife. But she seemed to take no offense, and laughed a little instead, smiling all the wider to see the pink tinting the prince’s cheeks as his face peered over Aragorn’s shoulder.

“It is more than a cold bed that drives me to invade your privacy,” she gave Faramir a respectful nod before turning back to Aragorn, “I bring news that could not wait even for the sun.” Arwen took a deep breath before continuing with a radiant smile, “I am with child.”

All traces of sleepiness left the king as the full knowledge of her words sunk in.

“You, you’re with child?” he stuttered, almost unsure if this was not some strange and beautiful dream into which he had drifted, “Truly? You are sure?”

Arwen nodded vigorously.

“I have suspected for many weeks, for my cycle had been late in coming this year. But I was not sure until I woke with the moonrise and his name became known to me. . .”

Aragorn pulled his wife into a tight embrace, kissing her fiercely, his joy so hot he felt as if his heart would burst. They had feared it would be long before they would be able to conceive, for the blood-cycles of elven women ran over the course of years rather than weeks. To know that it was his heir that she carried in her womb was a gift as great as the Evenstar he still wore about his neck. 

Faramir was silent in the bed beside them, suddenly feeling very small and out of place. This was a private happiness the king and queen were sharing, and though he did not begrudge them this long-awaited joy, it left him hollow with the knowledge that it was something that would always be denied to him. 

“Faramir?” Arwen’s quiet voice pulled the prince from his dark thoughts, and again, it was as if she had reached into his mind and translated his thoughts as easily as if they had been written across his eyes. Aragorn turned to his friend as well, and the sheer elation beaming from his face was almost enough to make the prince’s eyes well with jealous tears. 

He fought to hold them. Now was not the time. 

“Congratulations to you both,” Faramir said as he forced a smile, pulling away a little more from Aragorn as he watched the king clasp Arwen in his arms, “you will make wonderful parents.”

“Thank you,” Arwen said with a gentle smile, and her eyes softened suddenly to see such restrained pain again in the Steward’s face. She would have to be quick, lest this news undo all the good they had all worked for so hard in the past weeks.

“I have something I would like to ask, Faramir,” Arwen continued, and she reached out to touch the back of Faramir’s hand as it lay on the bed between he and Aragorn, “and you may think on it before you answer. For it a difficult thing I ask of you, and I know you have been through much already.”

She paused, suddenly shy under the prince’s cool gaze as he arched his eyebrows in guarded curiosity.

“I know the bond you share with my husband is strong, and that you love him powerfully. I want to know if you would consider extending that love to his son, and if you would let him call you father as well.”

Faramir was stunned. He had anticipated that Arwen would ask him to leave Aragorn now that the King was about to be a parent, as he would soon need to face his new duties unhindered by an outside relationship. He had not expected her to ask him to be a part of their new family.

“The weight of kingship will often pull a man from the those he most wishes to attend to,” Arwen continued, taking in the shocked look on the Steward’s face, “and if such duties pull him away for long, or if Valar forbid, to the grave, I would have my son still know a father who is strong and wise, who will show him the beauty and light in this world while teaching him how to overcome its darkness and trials. I can think of no finer man suited for this job than you, Faramir. If you would have it.”

Faramir did not know what to say, and his eyes darted between the King and Queen’s hopeful faces, their eyes bright with excitement. A small lick of realization fluttered in his heart, like a moth slowly breaking from it’s carefully spun cocoon to try it’s luminous wings for the first time.

“You would trust me with the life of your child?” Faramir asked, looking to Aragorn, still not daring believe in the power of Arwen’s request.

“Without question.” Aragorn replied, and he opened his free arm to Faramir in invitation.

The prince hesitated only a second before returning to Aragorn’s side again, the king’s strong arm wrapping around his shoulder to pull him close. 

“Not only would you be my friend and love,” Aragorn said softly, looking intently into Faramir’s bewildered eyes, “but you would be my son’s second father. I can think of no greater honor you could give me, Faramir.”

And there, without any reluctance before his wife, he kissed the prince deeply, tasting the sweetness of Faramir’s wonder and disbelieving joy on his trembling lips. 

The breathy sound of a little sigh pulled Faramir from the kiss, and he flushed fiercely to notice that Arwen was watching them intently, a deliciously wicked smile upon her lips.

“Have I told you, my good prince,” Arwen said slyly as she crept closer to Faramir, their faces only inches from each other across the span of Aragorn’s chest, “how simply endearing you are when you blush like that?”

To Faramir’s surprise she closed the distance between them and planted a little kiss on the tip of his nose.

Faramir’s head was swimming, all these new revelations swirling through him to create a whirlwind of emotions so potent he could not have describe them if he tried. Locked as he was in Aragorn’s embrace with Arwen so close and so encouraging, he could not recall ever feeling so openly loved in his entire life. 

The Queen took Faramir’s hand and clasped it tightly in hers, kissing the rough back before lowering their joined hands to rest over Aragorn’s heart. Through flesh and fabric the Steward could feel its powerful rhythm: beating for his wife, beating for his prince. Cradling this new love like an old friend, Faramir released his happiness the only way he knew how.

He wept with joy.


End file.
